


Run, and Don't Look Back

by Glasswing



Series: Administration [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canon - Comics, Canonical Character Death, Fan Created Team, Graphic Description, Grief/Mourning, Historical References, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Terrorism, Large Cast, Mentions of Nazi Germany, Minor Character Death, Multi, OC Team, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2018-10-21 09:44:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10682739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glasswing/pseuds/Glasswing
Summary: "From God, the King. From King, the Law."Team Fortress II, finally reunited, have been gifted with a new home. It is specially made for them, and gives them everything they could wish for, the safety and security of a dedicated base. Their morale, however, has been in pieces, ever since the battle with their predecessors. So has their tight-knit friendship, and, in one case, love.Death is a difficult thing to process, and the sharp sting of betrayal still hangs heavy in the air.But the mysterious and white-walled Facility holds many dark secrets, darker than anything they have faced before. It is only a matter of time before the truth comes to light.And when that time comes, it is time to run, and not look back.





	1. Apart

_“What do we do after things fall apart? Do we run to the familiar once again?_

_Do we attempt to numb the pain with distractions?_

_What do we do after things fall apart?”_

_― Benyf_

* * *

   **October 12th, 1972**

_Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap._

The insistent, rhythmic tapping was what spurred him, in the end, to look up from his work. It was a familiar sound, but not one that was expected today. There had been no arrangement for it.

He approached the window all the same.

Pushing it upwards with a soft grunt of effort, he allowed the bird to hop inside, allowing the window to fall back behind it. It gave a sharp _thunk_ , and he winced. The creature - a small barn owl - seemed to jump at the sudden noise, and he offered it a gentle stroke in apology. _This is a place of paranoia_ , he thought, _where every sound could be the last you hear._

He didn’t blame it.

There was a note, tied haphazardly around its left leg, and he frowned. _The doves are used for this, not an owl._ Pulling it away, he unravelled the creased and dog-eared paper, scanning blue eyes over its contents. The note was scrawled in, it seemed, whatever could be found at the time - pencil, biro, crayon, an instance of a glitter gel pen. It switched even mid-word, painting a picture, a jigsaw of information, something pieced together across hours or even days. Something that needed to be kept secret.

         “You shouldn’t be here.” he muttered, looking back up at the owl. “Go on, go, quickly. If they catch you you’ll be shot, do you hear?”

He pushed up the window once more.

         “Go.”

The owl returned his look, head turning to one side, as if questioning him. Sighing, he lifted a finger to stroke at the feathers on its head. Satisfied, it chirped a little in thanks, before hopping onto the outer sill.

         “Thank you, little one.”

It flittered off into the night.

_This can’t keep happening_ , he thought, as he stepped away from the window. Settling himself back into his chair, he found himself unable to focus, the knowledge now cracking and burning in his mind.

Lighting a cigarette, the Spy took one long drag, and sighed.

He set the note alight.

* * *

           **October 15th, 1972**

         “Well, guys, you’re here! Sorry it was such a long trip, we had to make sure nobody was following you. Thanks for waiting!”

They’d heard very little of the woman’s chirpy voice during the drive, and the lack of windows in the van had made the trip unquestionably _boring_. They were all stuck in the back, like children. Miss Pauling had occasionally flickered onto the little screen for updates to their trip, but they were few and far between.

Normally the group would be at ease with travel - they’d been to many bases over the years - but such short notice, and an even shorter explanation, had set them all on edge. None of them knew where they were headed. The only thing to do was wait.

The Engineer had pored over blueprints in the flickering light of the van’s interior. Their Medic did the same with a scattering of notes, but sat away from the group, unusually quiet. He was distracted, withdrawn, tired blue eyes reading the same passage over and over again. He had been distant, lately, which was unlike him, but they had decided against questioning it. His silence was somewhat unnerving.

Scout, it turned out, had brought far too few comics for the journey, and handed them back and forth to Pyro with increasingly-glazed eyes. The group’s Russian companion, their Heavy, had amused himself in silence, with a precious and dog-eared novel titled “Преступлéние и наказáние”. The Spy was the only man to translate that of his own accord. His early, questioning murmur of _Crime and Punishment?_ had rewarded him with an impressed smile for his trouble. They had exchanged a cryptic conversation on the novel’s themes, the struggles of its protagonist, and the differences between the original and its subsequent translations.

Needless to say, the other men had ignored them.

Their Sniper had slept through the journey, of course, given his uncanny ability to do so anywhere he pleased. He had been rather rudely woken by a sharp _thwack_ to his stomach from the Spy. _Piss off, ya bloody piker_ , he’d said. No change there, then.

Almost as soon as they heard the van come to a stop, the Demoman and Soldier had kicked the door open, knocking over some unfortunate helper in the process. Said unfortunate helper had ended up hidden beneath the body of the vehicle, and would hopefully wake up before someone drove away.

Hopefully.

The group finally emerged from the van, stretching tired muscles, and more than a few clicks escaped from abused joints. A couple of the ragtag band made quiet complaints about the journey. It was not surprising, really - they had all lost count of the hours they’d spent in the stifling vehicle, and nobody had been willing to keep track. A sudden burst of sunlight brought a chorus of curses into the air, and after looking around, they all quickly had a feeling they were not in Teufort anymore.

Their surroundings were now leafy, forested, the climate cooler and more temperate. The October air even held the dampness of a recent rain. They had been released into the looming shadow of a huge, white building, one with far too few windows to be normal, and it looked modern, specially built, untouched.

It looked _wrong_.

         “Welcome to your new home, boys!” they heard, the woman’s voice suddenly lacking the static of the communicator. “The Administrator arranged for you all to stay here permanently from now on. Hopefully it’s nicer than other places you’ve had to stay in.”

Miss Pauling - now here in the flesh - turned to the ivory doors, and beckoned them to follow.

         “Welcome to The Facility.”

* * *

         As expected, everything was largely the same.

The Facility, it turned out, was a sprawling building, but for now the Team had been restricted to the eastern block. _The other areas are off-limits,_ Pauling had said, _but for once that’s an absolute rule. The Administration have been very clear on this. That means you as well, Scout._

They’d each been given a room, as expected, and were permitted to make themselves comfortable. It all seemed new, almost clinical, never lived in. Dedicated areas had even been set aside. A kitchen, a common room, an infirmary for Medic to use, a small room put aside for the Spy and his work. It was as if it had been made for them.

It did not make it home.

They had dispersed almost immediately into their respective places, just like they always did, but there was much more of a silence than before. Spy had retreated to his room, as had Medic, and others were scattered around the common room and kitchen. Every so often someone would move from place to place, offering the rest a distracting glance, but it did nothing to ease the quietness they enforced.

It wasn’t _awkward_ , per se.

Just… _strange_.

Eventually, Scout spotted someone in the corridor, gave a nod, and hurried away to follow them. He returned ten minutes later looking as neutral as before, tapping the next man on the shoulder, before slumping back into his seat. His insistent point to the corridor got the message across to Soldier - eventually - and the American wandered away as well. So it continued, in something close to silence, until they finally figured out that _Medic_ had been calling them away. _Just for a check-over,_ the returned ones explained, _you know how he is._

         “The doc wants to see ya, Mick.”

The Scotsman’s statement had been expected, of course, but that didn’t mean it was wanted. He’d been waiting for it ever since the Scout had left, knowing the doctor far too well for his own good. The Sniper gave a short hum of response to the man, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and simply stretched out from his façade of slumber.

         “...tell ‘im I’m busy.”

         “But, Sniper, ya can’t-”

Louder, now, frustrated. Legendary patience worn down to the bone.

_“Tell. Him. I’m. Busy.”_

The Demoman sighed, and shrugged, and stepped away. There was no fighting a tone like that, especially not from the Sniper. The quiet ones were always the scariest. He’d slumped back down in his chair, pulling the brim of his hat down over his eyes, and seemed well-intent on resuming his illusion of sleep.

After everything that had happened, they let him.

It took a few minutes for the doctor himself to appear at the doorway, hands held behind his back, and for his clear German voice to break the stony silence.

         “ _Herr_ Sniper, I would like to see you.”

That name, that way of addressing him, formal, professional. So unlike how it had been before. How it had been when everything was _normal_.

         “You are not immune to routine.”

The gunman gave an almost _growling_ sigh, shifting his hat back up with one jerking motion, and stood. He didn’t even offer the Medic a blue-gazed glance as he strode past him.

After a deep breath and a tired look, the doctor followed.

* * *

By the time the Medic entered the room, the other man was already seated. Perched on the edge of the cold steel table, the Sniper’s expression was sullen, and his precious hat took pride of place beside him.

He knew what the doctor wanted. He’d already shed his jacket, allowing it to pool behind him, and had begun to unbutton his shirt with steady, calloused fingers.

Once upon a time, the sight would have excited the Doctor. Would have drawn up a burning heat into his core. Would have promised some time to themselves.

Now it was simply _cold_.

         “Thank you,” he murmured, but it fell ignored. “I wanted to see how your stitches are holding up, if I may.”

Again, no response.

He had no choice but to take it as consent. If the Sniper was unwilling, he would have known about it by now, perhaps even violently. Stepping forward, he inspected the great train-tracks of scars that crossed the other’s body. His eyes roamed old wounds, faded with time and the burning sun, ones he’d seen and traced and kissed. Ones he knew well. Too well.

But now there was professional coolness, detachment, simply playing the observer, not the lover. Not now. Gloved and steady hands that once held tight now pulled at new sutures to replace the old. Breaths that had whispered sweet nothings now just warmed the space between them.

Those blue eyes were not on him anymore.

Since he had been resurrected, the only words the Sniper had spoken to him were those of anger. After he had escaped the room and reunited with the Team, he’d said nothing to the doctor at all.

_He’s a quiet man,_ he’d reasoned at first, _he needs his own time. Death itself is no easy thing to get over._

But the days had melded into weeks, with not a word in his direction, before he finally realised it was _purposeful_. Sniper had been sullen and irritable with everybody, as unwilling to speak as he ever was, but he at least _spoke_ to the others, politely or otherwise.

Not so with the Medic.

Mick - _the Sniper_ , he corrected himself - was not a petty man. He was not a child, not one for petulance or simmering anger. He was not silent to punish, to get a reaction, to force a grovel for forgiveness.

_When I’m silent,_ he’d once explained, _it’s just because I don’t know what to say._

There were no words for what he’d done.

The Medic knew that, long ago.

He didn’t blame him for his silence, in the end. They had each had their reasons, to go or to stay, and whether or not to accept them was simply down to choice. Sniper was an honest man, a trusting man, but he _felt_ with every fibre of his body, more intensely than the Medic had ever known. He _felt_ angry, and betrayed, and hurt by what his lover had done. To walk away, without so much as a goodbye, to a group that would spell his demise.

It was a feeling no apology could pacify.

He could not control the other’s mind. Nobody could. That was the one area of research he had vowed never to touch, never to meddle with.

But here, pushing the final stitch through flesh that showed no pain, he wished he could. He wished, as the other dressed, that they could go back to the way they used to be.

_“Du hast noch mein Herz”_ , he said.

The Sniper stood, and walked away.

* * *

_~~There’s a good Nurse…~~_

_Oh, Gott, not again, not again. Please, not this, not again-_

_~~It’s so much better for you here, ain’t it?~~_

_Nein, nein it’s not, let me go, **let me go-!**_

_~~Now you can be useful.~~_

**_“DOKTOR!”_ **

The shout made him lurch upright, panting, the pain of screaming still burning in his lungs. He curled up into himself, clapping a hand over his own mouth, not knowing whether screams or sickness would escape it first. He felt strong arms envelop him, drawing a shudder of fear across his skin, but they remained gentle. It was Heavy, _his_ Heavy, not the great oafish _brute_ he had been forced to stay with. This was safety. Safety, and warmth, and-

         “Doktor was screaming, again.” A statement of the obvious, at first glance, but imbued with weeks of worry. “This is third night running. These nightmares are not good for you.”

An euphemism, at its core. It had changed again, re-formed again, made something different every night. It was not a nightmare, and never had been - those were fiction, fairy tales, the products of an unsettled mind.

These were not _nightmares_.

These were _memories_ , fused with the rawness of imagined panic, every nerve and every synapse alight with a sensation that screeched and spat throughout his body. They were inescapable.

He rubbed at his raw, red eyes with angered vigour, frustrated at the weakness he saw in himself. When he spoke, it sounded more pitiful than he ever wanted to.“I-I will be fine, _kuschelbär_. I have to get used to them. If they disturb you, I am happy to sleep elsewhere-”

         “No, Doktor.” came the gentle murmur, a voice so soft and quiet for a man his size. He leant back before he spoke, pulling the Medic onto his great chest, and held him protectively close. “Stay here. We are _team_ , Doktor, no matter what. You are great man, Klaus. You deserve to be protected.”

         “...thank you, _lieber_.”

         “Всегда, мой голубь.”


	2. Trapped

 

_“Yeah, as long as we know we're trapped, we still have a chance to escape.”_

_― Sara Grant_

* * *

** October 16th, 1972 ******

 

         It was raining, _hard._ That was the first thing that was new, the first thing different between their old Teufort base and this one. The sky was overcast with great black clouds, and the lightning cracked and echoed across the sky. The rain drummed on the roofs like the herald of catastrophe.

So, of course, they went to battle.

That wasn’t unexpected, at least. They were common, sometimes preferred, as being shut up in one base could get tiresome. They had been hooked up to a new respawn point, in the dead centre of their block, and the signals redirected to two sides of a battlefield.

Soldier, despite the rain, had seemed _ecstatic_ when he saw it. Bordered by chain-link fence that barred the way to densely forested land, rain tipping down from the heavens, and a vast abundance of _mud._

Spy had immediately turned his nose up, and had volunteered to “another task”. That, at least, balanced the teams, but left the others trapped in the battle. _Backstabbing snake_ , Scout had muttered none-too-quietly.

The Frenchman had simply smirked.

They were sorted into teams after that - an attack and a defense, as usual - and the attacking team had been ordered to trudge through the mud to the other side. Sniper, ever silent and used to unfavorable terrain, simply set off without them. Pyro followed suit with an excited hum, protecting their precious flamethrower from the elements. Some wondered whether they even felt the cold at all. Either way, they hardly cared about the mud.

The same could not be said for Medic.

He’d scowled at the rain, and the mud, and the setting that looked far too much like Europe, and the back of the advancing Sniper’s head. Black hair already slick with water, it had only taken an encouraging pat from Heavy to get Klaus to move. The great man watched with a twinge of pity as the doctor powered through the mud, slipping in places, trying to keep his mind clear and ready for battle.

His mind hadn’t been clear for four weeks.

_“Three!”_

It was time.

_“Two!”_

As they turned to the thick steel doors, Pyro had given Heavy a muffled and questioning hum, gesturing to the Sniper. _Why’s he on the attacking side?_

_“One!”_

_**CRACK.** _

Almost on cue, the sound rang out above the thunder, all but drowning out the starting call. Someone stumbled, slowly, and then fell with a _thump_ onto concrete.

_“Engineer is dead!”_

The only response was a collection of curses from the defending team - some in disbelief, some in amazement, some in anger. The Texan’s hat rocked slowly, plaintively on the floor, accepting a wash of blood onto its shiny surface. The other attackers hadn’t even noticed him. He had been behind a wooden fence, assuming he was safe, but the faintest glimmer of a crack had been the bullet’s gateway.

Sniper remained _emotionless._

No words, no triumphant smirk, no pride in the shot he’d taken. It had been an incredible shot, there was no doubt about that, but he didn’t react at all. It was meaningless now. He stood, slowly, and escaped into the safety of darkness. The tracer rounds gave away his position like a flare, and it was priority to get to another vantage point. Pick off the slow-moving Soldier, if he could.

Medic’s gaze flickered to the space he’d left, giving a sharp sigh before he turned away. Mick was different, now, and might never be the same.

Literally or not, he was gone.

         “Ready, _Doktor?”_ came the warning shout, and his attention was wrenched back to the present. Heavy had turned to him, beckoning him forward, and his first step meant the battle would truly begin.

He looked up, for a moment. He saw the little red dot, ever watching, sweep across the battleground. Waiting, just waiting, for the moment to strike. A test, for those brave enough to cross it, to see if they could face the same fate as their friend.

Something so small, that instilled such fear in the hearts of men.

Klaus took a step.

* * *

_“Sniper is wounded. Repeat, Sniper is wounded!”_

That was the call that had made his ears perk up. He’d heard Pyro’s and Heavy’s too many times for him to count, but those were the alerts called by the Mercs themselves. Ones that shot through his earpiece, too loudly to ignore, with a beeping that would not stop until it was resolved.

This was the automated alert. _Dummkopf_ was too stubborn to request the help himself.

He shouted to Heavy, giving a warning for his departure, and hurried off without a second thought. The beeping grew louder, louder still, like a game of hot and cold where lives were on the line. _Maybe this can still be salvaged. Maybe-_

The beeping became a long, dull drone, and fell silent.

_“Demoman is dead!”_

Mick was taking slow and shaky steps away from him, using the wall as his only support, other hand clutching a wound that oozed and stained his side with blood.

The scarlet-stained bottle that lay shattered was the cause.

         “Mick.” he said, quiet, insistent. He tried to hide the worry in his voice, but again it escaped in a way he did not intend, betraying the emotion he hid. “Michael, stop it. Sit down.”

His words fell ignored, just like always.

Almost with renewed strength, the Sniper continued on, trying to put distance between them. He was silent save the occasional grunt of pain. His attacker was far behind him, chest run through with a kukri, decomposing far too quickly to be natural.

         “Mick.”

A repetition, in the futile hope of a reply. At this rate, the Sniper would bleed out, there must be internal injury, it would be a slow and painful death. Klaus shook the thoughts of panic from his head, trying to focus on priority. Sniper needed healing, he needed to ready his medigun, to let the beam charge again-

Mick slumped down the wall to the floor.

The movement left a long smear of blood along the grain of the wood, seeping into the cracks. He’d finally reached his destination, the medical kit left for use as always, and with the last of his strength began to tend to his wound.

Klaus took a step.

Almost immediately those burning blue eyes were on him. It was the first eye contact they’d had in weeks.

Warning. Threatening. _Come no closer._

_**“MEDIC!”** _

The Heavy’s roar rang out from the battlefield and echoed in his ears, making him clutch his head for a moment. Mick looked away towards the sound.

He didn’t turn back again.

Eventually, he made some noncommittal movement that must have meant _go,_ and resumed the work on his wound. It was as if the doctor wasn’t standing there at all.

Against all his roaring protests, Klaus obliged.

* * *

_“The defending team **wins**!”_

_Oh, God._

Ducking into a corner, Medic hid himself as best he could, hoping he could wait out the countdown timer. It had been set at three minutes this time. Every thirty seconds or so, his earpiece would blare out the time remaining, almost intended to blow his cover. He’d died a number of times during this long and arduous battle, and had no intention of doing it again.

This so-called _Humiliation Round_ was all well and good when you were on the winning side, after all, but the alternative was, at best, _unpleasant._

_“Pyro is dead!”_

Well, that was one down. Pyro often went first when they were on the losing team, preferring to run straight at the enemy, almost for a hug. Many of them wondered if the pyromaniac understood the round at all. Often, the Medic himself was second, easily seen by his white coat - now, of course, well-stained in mud - closely followed by the isolated Sniper.

Heavy always went last.

Being a great beast of a man, it took quite a bit of work to take him down. Klaus could hear the battle-roar outside, that challenging howl, that final, triumphant sound of _come and get me._ They usually died side-by-side, in the heat of the battle.

Soldier had chased him here.

Hearing heavy footsteps, Klaus pressed himself into the shadows, taking out the earpiece to hide it in his pocket. Soldier was always bloodthirsty after a win, drinking in the thrill of the chase and the sweet, sweet taste of triumph. He didn’t need to die to him today.

         “There y’are, _cupcake…”_

_Scheiße, scheiße, scheiße!_

Klaus was no coward - he never had been - but he felt his eyes flicker shut as the fear began to take hold. It was hard-wired, intrinsic to all of them, that constant race for survival. It was the basest and most fundamental of instincts. Respawn with all its technological miracles couldn’t change human nature, and so it was a battle between a fearful body and an accepting mind.

Seconds passed, but felt too long. There had been no blow, no pain, nothing. He half-assumed he’d died already, and would open his eyes to the stark white ceiling of the Respawn room.

Or perhaps Mr Doe was taking his time?

_“...make it quick, ya mongrel.”_

The Medic’s blue-eyed gaze snapped open, then, and with a deep breath he peeked out from his hiding place. A corridor to his right stopped short into a little room, a sniper’s nest, where Mick was sat against the wall. _How had he not noticed him?_ The Sniper was wounded, again, and was clutching a shoulder black and burned. He sat there, slumped but still prideful, a cornered animal bristled and waiting for the end. Soldier himself was looming over him. Grinning and triumphant, he brandished his beloved pickaxe, and took one more step forward.

_Oh, no._

Klaus found himself transfixed by the scene that played out before him, both morbidly curious and _sick to his stomach_. It was the kind of feeling one gets when you see a car crash and can’t pull your gaze away, mesmerised by the carnage, when you know someone’s died but the instinct is insatiable. He didn’t want to watch. He had no choice.

         “There is no place for _cowards_ on _my_ battlefield!”

The sharp silver pick pierced geniohyoids, driving deeper, deeper, blood pouring from a silent screaming mouth and the sound blocked by a lingulus impaled, struggling hands clutching and clawing at the metal, the pick drawing back and driving in again into a scarlet-stained oesophagus and leaving the man to drown in his own blood and oh God this wasn’t helping this was different this was _Mick_ and he was _dying_ and-

_**“Heavy is dead!”** _

The electronic call broke the Soldier from his bloodlust, and he glanced around, wrenching the pick from the Sniper’s ruined neck. He would know that Medic was the only man left. The gunman swayed a little with the other’s movement, breaths long and wheezing from his throat, and his blue eyes were glassy from the pain.

He finally collapsed, and lay still.

Soldier stepped back, then, and began his search for his final prey. Through shallow, panicked breaths Klaus pressed himself back into the shadows, covering his mouth and feeling tears joining the sweat that wet his shaking hands. His heart pounded against his chest, bringing a crushing weight and _pain_ , such unrelenting _pain_ , and a terror he couldn’t begin to describe.

_Now isn’t the time, not now, **please-**_

         “You’re not good at bein’ quiet, _maggot.”_

_Oh Gott, bitte, bitte nein, tu das nicht, jetzt nicht, ich will leben, ich will meine Eule, ich will das alles weggehen und nie wiederkommen -_

_“Sniper is dead!”_

He sank to the floor, gloved fingers clutching at black strands of hair, and curled in on himself.

_“Stop! Ceasefire! The round is over!”_

It would never be over.

Never.

* * *

_This place is nice. A new place. Pretty white walls everywhere, everything neat, full of nice things._

The pyromaniac had wandered the halls for almost an hour, and seemed to find a delight in the place that the others had not. They had looked into rooms – ones that weren't locked – and had found them all to be largely identical to their own. Scout had taken the liberty of decorating his, banners and memorabilia from his favourite baseball team sprawled across the walls, and somehow had made it as messy as his old one. Demo's was amassing a collection of bottles in the corner, still full. The other corner had two lone, empty ones. Something told them that they would be inverted soon enough. Sniper's room had photographs. Engineer had tools. Medic’s, Spy’s, Heavy’s were all locked.

Soldier's contained some sort of wild animal, and they had quickly closed the door again.

They had passed the infirmary – being on strict instructions not to enter – but had at least _tested_ the lock on Spy's other room. It was shut fast, of course, but the Frenchman could thank them for checking. God knows the catastrophe if whatever was in there got out.

Pyro had a theory he had some kind of enormous pet, something dangerous. Something for throwing enemies in with, like in those old Bond movies. Maybe an octopus.

Definitely an octopus.

Turning as many corners as they could, Pyro found themselves in a corridor they didn't know existed. It was very, _very_ long, and almost mirrored the area they'd come from. It had the same doors, the same walls.

The only difference was the three guards who barred their way.

They all turned at once as if controlled by a puppeteer, helmets eerie in their blankness. They were dressed in outfits as pure-white as the walls, trimmed by purple, and _armed._

         “You are not permitted to enter this area. Turn back.”

Pyro didn't, at first, and instead just cocked their head to one side in confusion. Who were these people? The purple was the same as the colour Miss Pauling wore on her _very pretty_ dress, so perhaps they were from Administration. The Pyro took another step forward.

A chorus of clicks, and the dance of laser sights on their mask.

_“This is a restricted area. Turn back.”_

Eventually, the Pyro relented, and held up their hands in a sort of surrender. They turned away, and half-marched themselves back along the corridor.

Once they were out of sight, they broke into a sprint.


	3. Escape

 

_“To escape death, she'd become death.”_

_\- Sarah J. Maas_

* * *

** October 17th, 1972 **

          "C'mon, _firebug_ , we've been walkin' for ages now. Just what on Earth are ya showin' me?"

A sharp, unintelligible series of hums were all the response the Engineer received. Pyro was dragging the smaller man along the corridors, and the words the Texan could usually understand were left a mystery. The masked figure had been "speaking " like someone possessed for the whole morning, almost as if unable to keep it in any longer.

Dell, as their closest companion, had agreed to follow them. They passed rooms unmarked and dead-end hallways, a labyrinth of ice-white secrets, and reached a corridor with not three guards, but _six._

Three were facing inwards, as before. Three were not. They were all identical, in height as well as frame, and it gave the unnerving impression that one was looking into a mirror. The effect was as if you stood there a vampire, bereft of a reflection, but as tangible in self as the rest of this peculiar place.

          "You are not permitted to enter this area. Turn back."

The exact words, in the same tone as before. The shiny masks made it unclear which of them had spoken, and the thick, padded uniforms disguised even their breathing. All three of them had right hands hovering over their guns, and the two mercenaries wisely raised their hands.

          "We ain't trespassing, fellas, don't you worry 'bout that. Pyro and I were just looking 'round the place. We'll be on our way."

Taking grip on the pyromaniac's sleeve, the Engineer pulled them away, but was stopped by a quick-fire point and an excited hum.

A figure, at the other end of the corridor. A blur of blonde, and then stillness.

           _"This is a restricted area. Turn back."_

Another pull, and the two were away.

* * *

          "Well, ain't this a mystery."

They had assembled, with some effort, around the table in the common room, and their varying enthusiasm was rather apparent. Pyro was still bouncing quite happily in their chair, excited by their glimpse of something new, but was a stark contrast to the sullen Sniper sat beside them. At the other end of the table, Klaus seemed to match him, but was tucked up against Heavy's side under the pretence of a lack of room.

He'd been crying, again.

The Medic had made himself scarce ever since the battle the day before, and had taken some coaxing by Heavy to even leave the safety of his infirmary. This was becoming more and more common, but most left him to himself, out of respect or simply mistrust. Multiple times had Sniper been caught trying to dress a wound on his arm with only a bandage and his teeth. The loner was now fiercely independent, almost dangerously so, and could go missing for hours at a time. He'd accepted Soldier's apology for the humiliation round, but had said next to nothing since.

Any suggestion for them to _just talk to each other_ was left ignored.

In any case, they somehow had both attended this makeshift meeting, but eye contact was still some distant speck of a possibility. An achievement to be reached, when they reached it. But not before.

          "So you say there were six guards?" came the Spy's questioning murmur, turning to the Engineer. The Texan nodded in response, but Pyro's frantic, childlike waving drew all attention back to them. They held up three thickly-gloved fingers, and hummed something that sounded like _yesterday_.

          "Three guards yesterday, six today. Strengthening of security." Heavy concluded, smiling at the excited nod the Pyro gave. "Restricted area, and person we do not know. _Mystery_ indeed."

          "But why would they want more guards?" Demo piped up, unusually sober for this time of day. It probably wouldn't last. "It'll hardly be ta protect _us_. We're mercenaries, th'biggest and baddest killers in th'world! We can handle ourselves just _bloody_ fine..."

          Spy's only response was an exasperated sigh, at first, earning him a glare from the Scotsman. "If that is true, then their intention is not to keep other people _out_." he began, returning his gaze to the Engineer. "If there is added security, along with the figure you saw... I would be inclined to assume they wish to keep us, and others, _in._ "

          "So we're trapped?"

There was a long stretch of silence, as the reality of their situation dawned upon them.

          " _Ja_. It would seem we are."

* * *

** October 20th, 1972 **

It was decided, in the end, to keep quiet about their glimpse of the unknown. It was too dangerous to reveal or question it, given how there were so many guards, and the knowledge that they were likely being watched drew them to part. It was best to show that they thought nothing of it, or that it was just a fancy of imagination.

In the days that had followed, they did not return to the corridor, and avoided the guards that were beginning to crop up at every corner. Sniper's walks outside the Facility - within the great fence, of course - had not proven particularly fruitful in figuring out their location, nor the sheer scale of the building. All he had been able to report was that it was simply _big_ , and that there could possibly be a basement. He could not identify any landmarks of note, and the landscape was forest in all directions.

For all intents and purposes, they were prisoners.

Paid prisoners, granted, but with no way of leaving and less information than ever before, their isolation was starting to take hold. There seemed to be no way of contacting anyone - upon their glances, Sniper had muttered a reminder that he _had no need for it -_ and confusion quickly gave way to concern. No calls or letters from Heavy's family, no Mikhail this or Misha that; and no word from Zhanna, who had kept in touch with Soldier the entire time thus far. Scout's mother could not be contacted, nor could his many siblings, and it seemed that the Team had fallen off the face of the Earth.

Five days after their arrival, they finally heard from Miss Pauling.

_We'd like you to go to the hall in the centre of the Facility at noon sharp today. That's when the two hands are pointing up, for those of you that don't know. The guards will show you the way. All of you have to attend, okay? No exceptions. At all. Pauling out._

They could hardly argue with that.

When they obliged, filtering out of the common room, the guards pointed sharply to a door. Upon closer inspection, they found it heavily reinforced, made of thick and unseamed metal – when they approached, it slid little by little into the wall. The room they entered was wider than it was long, and peculiarly empty.

          "Good afternoon, gentlemen."

The voice, it turned out, came from the less-than-welcome sight of the Administrator. She was standing there in all her elderly glory, decked out in purple and black, and with too-white teeth was _grinning_ at them. Scout gave a particularly unnerved shudder at the sight of her, but thankfully kept his mouth shut, having seen Miss Pauling standing there as well. She gave them an awkward smile. The Team were directed into a straight line, with Scout at one end and Spy at the other, and _gently_ encouraged to stand to attention.

There was silence, for a moment, as the woman waited for what seemed like nothing at all. More than one mercenary fidgeted in his place. Wisps of smoke from two expensive cigarettes were the only things that broke the stillness, white cirrus-clouds that rose and began to dissipate.

          "We'd like to introduce you to some... _new friends_."

The wall before them shimmered, and cracked, and fell away. Bare metres from the line was another collection of people, women, looking equally shocked and afraid and confused, each bearing the sigils of their counterparts.

The glimpse of blonde now had shape, had form. It was a young lady, marked as a Scout, who bounced softly on her heels with nerves. A woman beside her, much older, with a burning stare that matched the Soldier's with equal intensity. Another with short hair and battle-burned hands. At the very end their ninth, with bouncing platinum curls, who blew the Spy a kiss and muttered a nickname.

A long line of women, as scarred and battle-worn as they were.

A long line of women, with eyes as bright as jewels, that held colours that were not human.

          "I'd like you to meet Team Aegis."


	4. Consequences

 

_"If you build the guts to do something, anything, then you better save enough to face the consequences."_

_― Criss Jami_

* * *

**October 20th, 1972**

"Thank you for that _riveting_ introduction, Helen!"

Footsteps, from the opposite door. Two sets. One short-striding, the other long, both carrying the click of expensive shoes. Strangers to nine, and friends to eleven. The rhythmic sound belonged to two men, both dressed in the purple of the Administration, who rounded the new Team to face their counterparts. One was quite tall, stony-faced, with close-cut hair and a very thin frame. He held a similar clipboard to Miss Pauling, which must have meant he was an Assistant. He looked unimpressed. It was the _smaller_ man, therefore, standing there like an old-fashioned mob boss with a cigar between his teeth, that must have spoken. His grin was something _lecherous_ , flickering gaze occasional but terribly unsubtle. _Slimy_ was the word that came to mind.

         "Nice to see you finally gracing us with your presence, Stephen." came the Administrator's - _Helen's_ \- reply, seemingly unperturbed by the man's unusual nature. "I was beginning to worry that you'd given up your position as an Administrator. It would certainly be difficult to replace you."

         "I ain't leaving that easily, honey, don't you worry about that." Stephen all but _purred_ , turning to the women lined up next to him. "Team Aegis, if you haven't already figured it out, the men who stand before you are the second iteration of our original _tour de force_ \- Team Fortress."

Some of the women glanced to each other, then. Almost- _glowing_ eyes shared concern and confusion  and awe before flitting back to the men in question, sizing up their opposites. The young blonde-haired Scout was still fidgeting with nervousness. With a snap of Stephen's fingers, they all stood to attention once more, gazes dropping to ashen concrete.

"It's very nice to meet you at last, Fortress II. Been watchin' you really carefully these past few years. Helen's told me a lot about ya. But I bet ya didn't know about Aegis, right?" Stephen grinned, gesturing to the teal-clad Team. "Been around for years, but a real big secret. Had to make sure everything was perfect, right? So now they're going to be joining you here at the Facility, also in permanent residence."

Stephen walked along the line, then, slowly enough to point each woman out. "Kitty, Angela, Antonina, Vera, Izabel, Daniëlle, Ekundayo, Christine and - last but _certainly_ not least - my lovely _Annabelle_." He slipped an arm around the final woman's waist, and she gave a lilted little giggle of flattery. A Spy so far unlike their own. "All wonderful little ladies with some _excellent_ abilities. I think they'll give your Fortress a run for their money, don't you, Helen?"

A dangerous smirk, and an amused sigh. "We can certainly put that to the test."

After a moment's laugh, Stephen beckoned the woman, who offered him nothing more than folded arms and a questioning look. The smile he gave was both sheepish and mocking. He approached her like a scolded puppy, hands thrust into pockets, and they both strode off to discuss elsewhere.

         "Okay, so, um, guys?" Thirty-five eyes all turned to the voice. It was Miss Pauling, speaking from beside the stranger of an Assistant, dwarfed by his immense height. "Your areas will be linked from now on, so you can interact as one big group. Mr Volkov and I will be keeping an eye on both teams. Please don't try to murder each other _too_ quickly."

          Her tired nonchalance drew a snicker from some of the men, but Team Aegis shared some worried glances. Silence resumed when the other Assistant spoke. His accent was thick, Russian like Mikhail's, but solid with confidence. There was a flicker of arrogance within it. "Administrators would like to speak with Spies, Medics, and Engineers. The rest stay here. Introduce yourselves."

With that, he turned on his heel, inclining with his head.

The chosen six followed. Twelve remained.

Immediately, the Aegis demolitions expert - _Daniëlle?_ \- turned to the woman beside her, and met the other's curious gaze. She must be the Sniper, judging by the emblem. With a tilt of her head, the Sniper nodded, and mouthed something.

_What's going on?_

Daniëlle replied only with a series of movements, clear and careful, and finally the girl nodded again. She turned quickly to her counterpart, smiling excitedly, and signed out something that none of them could understand.

"She says hello, and that her name is Christine." Daniëlle filled in, helpfully, and grinned at the sheepish smile the other gave. "Oh, and she's wondering what yours is."

"I, uh- Mick. Mick Mundy. Nice to meet ya." the gunman replied, offering a hand for her to shake. It was the first time they'd heard him speak for days. Christine looked delighted by the gesture, obliging the handshake, but turned her head as Daniëlle translated. _M-I-C-K._ She repeated the name, as if to test it on her lips, and gave a grin when she looked back to him. Fingers, tapped to her chin, and brought downwards in an arc.

_Thank you._

"This is Christine Cartwright, our lovely Sniper - she's deaf, you see, that's why she's signing. I'm Daniëlle Van Aalsburg, the Demo for Team Aegis. It's nice to finally meet you."

"Th'Team Fortress Demoman, at your service!" came the cheery, interrupting reply, and its owner approached the woman with usual confidence. For once he wasn't drunk, but the flirtatious tone in his voice was difficult to ignore. " _You_ can call me Tavish."

He got a laugh from that, incredibly, and the four quickly settled into friendly chatter.

"So, my name's Scout- uh- Jeremy. My name's Jeremy."

_Oh, real smooth, genius, you blew it!_ the tiny Scout inside his head cried out, smacking his own forehead in dismay. If Spy was there, he'd be snickering by now.

"W-We're both Scouts, I got that. Knew that. U-Uh, what's your name again?"

The poor girl he'd managed to corner was the blonde they'd seen first, the Scout they'd spotted in the corridor. She was smiling at him, despite the nervous bouncing of her heels, and her reply was as polite as her grin.

"My name's Kitty."

Her speech was very measured, very careful, and didn't quite sound natural. It was somehow genuine, however, and one could hear the smile within her words. "I've heard a lot about you, Jeremy."

Ego growing and interest piqued, he decided talking to her might not be so bad after all.

* * *

"Well. You and that Archman girl seem to be acquainted."

At first, there was no response. Unperturbed by the Engineer's interruption, the Spy remained absolutely still, silent in his concentration. The pre-battle announcement spoke of _five minutes_. Slate-blue eyes bore into an ill-fated cigarette, as if he were trying to set it alight again.

_"Unfortunately."_

Dropping the cigarette, the Frenchman ground it into the snow-white floor, and immediately took out another one. This must have been the fourth or even fifth since the team introduction alone, and he seemed to have no intention of stopping. Medic's chastisement had fallen ignored.

"It appears that my efforts to _avoid_ her have been in vain." Spy took another long drag of his newest cigarette, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, and released the smoke in one long trail that rose and spread and dissipated. "I was once given the task of assassinating a particular businessman in the midwest USA. I planted myself in the office building for two days, integrating myself with the staff, and on the third day approached the door to the CEO's office. Who do I see but this _upstart_ strolling out of the room, cool as you please, and my target already stone dead."

The Scout scoffed at that. "So you don't like her because she's _better than you?_ Is that it?"

"You wouldn't know, Jeremy, because you seem to be obsessed with women who _are_." the Spy replied, tone particularly venomous. "She had seduced him, got him alone, and set his corpse up in such a way that he appeared to have met his demise during a bout of... _autoerotic asphyxiation_. Which would have been _perfectly fine_ had she not used this exact method _four times previously_." he hissed, nothing but disdain in his voice.

_Three minutes._

"She considers herself to be _clever._ She uses espionage as a chance to make and _flaunt_ her money, and treats it all like a game, like she is acting for Hollywood. She is wanted by every police force in the States, and even more in Europe. Every force now knows her name. She is more _prostitute_ than _assassin_."

"Ha! Never thought I'd see the day - a lady Spy doesn't want to bed!" Scout cackled, finally, taking his rare chance to make fun of his usual rival. "You _jealous_ of her?"

He received a smack to the back of the head.

Standing, the Spy gave a huff of annoyance, and approached the great metal doors that kept them from the battleground. They'd all dressed in preparation for expected rain. He took another long drag of his cigarette, releasing another stream of smoke, and glanced upwards with the two-minute warning.

"Gentlemen, the Aegis team have abilities unlike our own. That is all I know for sure at present. It would be _very wise_ , however, not to underestimate them. They have served the Administration just like us. If they weren't equally effective, they would not be here to battle us. Be on your guard."

_One minute remaining._

* * *

"So just- just to be certain. We're _not_ gonna _die?"_

The question had been on everybody's minds since the announcement, but it had been Kitty who had voiced it.

Several times, in fact.

         "No, we are not going to die, _fluturaș._ " came the inevitable and unwearying reply, from their softly-smiling Soldier. "We have been assured that these chips will return us to life should we die, but only once. A temporary thing, if you like." she murmured, patting the nervous Scout on the head. The poor thing had been jittery all afternoon.

          _One minute remaining._

"We all know that giving us the "respawn" system permanently would make Fortress redundant." was their Engineer's addition, with a tone of pride. "This is a team elimination game, ladies, once you're out you're out. Let's show them how a _girl_ fights."

_"Three! Two! One!"_

The doors rattled open, the charging yell sounded, and the women began their sprint through their respawn's corridor. Kitty was first among them, footsteps pounding against the concrete, legs working overtime to fulfill her named purpose.

The Scout's nervousness disappeared.

         "It's _snowing!"_

Fear transformed to awe as they emerged into the light, and it soon turned again to determination. The other team's red uniforms were beacons in the snow, eliminating any chance of staying hidden, and that gave the white-and-teal Aegis a distinct advantage. The team scattered. Christine sprinted up a set of stairs, getting herself out of sight, and Annabelle's now-invisible footsteps kept only to the thinnest snow.

With a roar, the battle began.

Exchanges of rockets whistled and screeched through the air as the Soldiers fought, and the frantic rhythm of bombs and detonations provided the ceaseless beat of war. Daniëlle and Tavish had quickly found each other on the battlefield. Yells and whoops of both anger and triumph rang out, and explosions became the clash of metal on metal.

         She spoke first, grunting with the effort of the clash, meeting his golden gaze with two glowing yellows of her own. "Nice sword!"

         "I was goin' to say the same about your axe, lass!" came his reply, the Eyelander roaring insults in his head. "But can you _use it?"_

Her response missed his arm by a hair's breadth.

Man and woman gave equal grins before their battle resumed in full force, sparks flying from the blades with each connection. Swing, block, dodge, swing again.

It ceased only when the woman's head was struck from her body.

For a moment, there was silence, bated breath held behind panicked lips. Fortress stopped, too, merely out of courtesy, knowing they'd had the same fear all those years ago.

In seconds, she rotted to nothing, and the fighting began once more.

* * *

 

         They'd been told they could survey their battle later, should they wish, on the imported video player in the now-shared common room. Some of the older mercenaries had observed the Australian technology with interest - _it recorded in colour? -_ but the victorious Aegis were now huddled around the TV in excitement, watching the replay of the battle's final, crucial minutes.

Klaus, by skill or by luck, had survived. In the driving snow, he had fought hand-to-hand with Izabel - their Heavy - and had held his own quite capably, armed only with his übersaw. He had waited out the hundreds of bullets to move in close, getting in a few solid hits before being overpowered.

He watched the replay through a camera's eyes, and knew the angle hid his terror.

All of them - all of Aegis - had had abilities he'd never witnessed before. Things he'd merely dreamed of, worked towards, presented before him in a way that made them nightmares. Kitty had sprinted every step, at a pace that put Jeremy to shame. Their Pyro had melted steel with her bare hands. Archman had seduced Dell from his post with words alone.

Izabel had torn the metal from the walls.

Her final weapon of choice, in the end, had been a set of vicious-looking brass knuckles, and she had certainly put them to use. She'd charged forward with the metal aloft like a riot shield, making his Blutsauger useless, and had caught him once, twice, three times with those vicious spikes. The strikes had punctured lines into his stomach and chest, bringing blood to bruising ribs, and one to his left cheek made his tongue visible from the outside.

He had lashed out in desperation, plunging the saw handle-deep into the flesh beneath her ribcage, and she had shrugged it off like it was nothing.

That was where his panic had set in.

This, again, this familiar terror again, the height of that battle where he'd ripped the saw from Australium-powered flesh and let it clatter to the floor, tackled him and pinned him and pressed his head into the mud, but this time it was _her_ and not _him_ but the strength was the same and he'd kicked and struggled until the hand around his neck had made his vision fall black and he thought he would never wake again.

The women gave another whoop of joy as the announcement of victory rang through the speakers, breaking Klaus from his memories. It was the past, everything was the past, and there was no way to change it.

All the Australian tech in the world could not alter the hands of time.

Respawn had spared him an attack, of course, but it had replaced it with a sense of foreboding that made him feel sick. Almost sensing that feeling, Mikhail let his hand rest upon the Medic's shoulder, a gesture grounding and supportive. _I'm here_ , it said, _and you are safe._ Klaus took a long, slow breath in return, an acceptance of sorts, and gave a nod.

_I know._

         "You seem to be very good at _losing_ things, Doktor."

Silence fell over the room as Aegis turned, multicoloured eyes fixing upon their Assistant. The slim man stood with an easy superiority, a triumphant smirk, one befitting of the man he worked for.

         "Volkov, leave him alone…"

The warning reply was left unheeded. Volkov walked towards the two with almost a swagger in his step, blue eyes fixed upon the doctor, and he passed the man close enough to push him out of the way. He chuckled as he did so, louder still at the hiss of annoyance that Klaus gave, and cut in just before the other spoke.

         "Have lost your battle, your reputation, your _mind_. I wonder what else you will stand to lose, _fašisty_."

Two sets of blue eyes narrowed at the man, knowing the meaning of the word and the taunting behind it. That steadying hand was still there upon his shoulder, keeping Klaus back from an argument, and the larger Russian shook his head.

_It's not worth it._

They watched as Volkov continued on his walk, arrogant and preening like a peacock, and the way he ignored the Sniper standing by the door.

Michael tripped him.


	5. Reality

 

_"Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls."_

_― Anaïs Nin_

* * *

**October 20th, 1972, 6:20pm**

_“Och kap'teintje sla me niet, ik ben uw liefje, ik ben uw liefje…”_

The clinking of proffered bottles broke the little tune, making the woman trail off in her song. She accepted the gift with a gentle smile, and shifted up a little, allowing the man to sit heavily beside her. The soft “oof” he gave made her grin. The winter chill had forced them both to stay close to the door, heat still escaping from the floor below, but their little camp on the roof was good enough for them.

He’d shoved the rest of the bottles into the fresh and four-inch snow - something learned, he said, from the Heavy of his team. Russian snow was as good an icebox as any.

          “Pretty song, lass.”

          She smiled at that, glancing away to look out over frozen forests. “It’s an old song. Something I learned when I was small - a nursery rhyme. It’s nothing, really.”

          Tavish took a swig of drink, shaking his head and nudging her playfully. “Aw, c’mon now. What’s it about?”

His insistence earned him an amused glance, and her hand fell to twist at a ring on her finger. It was a practised movement, almost habitual, and she did not cease even when she spoke again.

          “It’s about a girl who wants to sail on a pirate ship, so she dresses up as a man. It’s a silly little rhyme.” she murmured, glancing up at her counterpart, only to follow his single-eyed gaze back to her hand. “Something wrong?”

          “You married?”

          She chuckled at that, her laugh a sweet sound that echoed over the rooftop. “Oh, no. Just engaged. In the Netherlands we wear engagement rings on our left hands, wedding rings on the right. See?”

She lifted her hand, slowly, until the silver ring glinted in the light. Where the sunlight had been harsh against the snow, it was quickly dimming to amber, bathing the sky and trees and mountains in a gorgeous ochre wash. For a moment, her smile remained, until her hand curled in and it faltered.

They fell silent after that.

Minutes passed without words, where the right ones could not be found.

The sun continued its slow journey, uncaring of their silence, and sank beneath the horizon. For a moment there was still an orange glow in the air. When it left, there was only the near-full moon to light the sky, illuminating the snow far beneath them.

          “I came here to get away from him.”

He looked up, then, concern written on a furrowed brow, but said nothing.

          “He wanted me to give up my studies and stay at home. I was trapped, there. The Administrator - _Stephen_ \- offered me a place here, told me they could make me the best chemist in the world, and I jumped at the chance.”

Daniëlle’s gaze had fallen to her hands, again, where expert fingers twisted at the ring. The moonlight gave a silver outline to her movements, brown hair falling to cover her features.

          “I didn’t know that I would be just as trapped.”

Another silence fell, then. She brushed her hair away from her face, gently, as one does when trying to steel oneself. An imperceptible way of facing the world you live in.

_“Please, my captain, hit me not, I am your lady-love, I am your lady-love…”_

She trailed off in her song once again, knowing her meaning had been made clear. Tavish, beside her, had shifted uncomfortably with the realisation, and had silently placed another bottle in front of her. That was proof enough.

          “Is alcohol your escape, Tavish?”

          He chuckled at that, and shook his head. It was a guilty sound, one of acceptance of her claim, and he took a playful swig to prove it. “Could say that. Nice to have somethin’ to enjoy when everything's goin’ to shit.”

          “I can understand that.” Daniëlle replied, still smiling. She took her own sip of the drink, wiped her mouth gently, and set the bottle back into the snow. “I just try to distract myself. I focus on taking care of my team - we’re like a little family, you see. We’re very protective of each other, especially with Christine and Kitty. They’re our two youngest.”

Whoops and shouts of laughter could be heard from far beneath them, then, and they both craned their heads over the roof-edge. The sound came from none other than Kitty herself, accompanied by her Fortress counterpart, and they’d begun to pelt each other with snowballs.

          “She’s only been here for six weeks.”

Daniëlle’s words were soft, then, as if she was afraid of Kitty hearing. She sat back on the spare coat she’d brought with her. Taking another long drink, she seemed to be coming around to Tavish’s philosophy, and gave a near-regretful sigh before she spoke.

          “Our last Scout passed away suddenly. Stephen picked this girl up from a terrible place - like all of us - and made her into our newest team member, before we could even stop to grieve. She’s barely a child.”

          She turned back to Tavish after that, forcing two yellow eyes to meet singular brown. “Aegis…” A sigh. “...Team Aegis is a group of _experiments,_ Tavish. Stephen saw your Administrator’s need for Australium, and proposed that he try to make it synthetically. He’s never quite managed it, but he found nine forms of the element that would benefit each of the classes. Why find specialists, he said, when he can just make them?”

Tavish cocked his head at that, brow furrowing again in concern. She gave a weak and one-sided smile in reply, as if to say _my thoughts exactly,_ and continued.

          “We take the Australium in pill form every morning, or… or we begin to deteriorate. Anything that is powered by Australium suffers when that power is removed - that’s why those with pure-Australium immortality shrivel away when it’s gone. I’ve seen it happen.” 

_I have too,_ Tavish thought, but he didn’t say it.

          “Vera, Christine, Annabelle and I all have mind-based, well, _powers._ Christine can sense people around her, even through a Spy’s cloak, and Annabelle could sweet-talk a snake into knots. Put any machinery in front of Vera, and she can use it like a master within minutes. Same with me and chemical reactions. They were right - I could be one of the best chemists in the world - but there’s such a cost. Our minds rely on Australium now. If we don’t take it, then…”

          “You’re done for.” Tavish concluded, grimly, and gave a sigh of his own. “So ya have no choice but to stay at Aegis.”

She nodded, finally, and they both fell silent again.

Kitty and Jeremy, coated in powder-snow and laughing breathlessly, stumbled arm-in-arm back into the base. They’d left tracks in the snow that would not be gone ‘til morning.

          “I hope we can all be family. I feel like we’ll need it.”

* * *

**October 20th, 1972, 9:48pm**

          Volkov’s words had haunted him all evening.

He’d sat politely with the newly-combined Teams, and made quiet conversation, but Klaus had ultimately found little to say. Everything seemed out-of-place, distant, most thoughts not worth offering to the open air. 

There had been the rhythmic, sweeping scrape of a sharpening-stone on metal.

It was like an executioner was near.

Mick had stayed to his task until the blade shone, reflections bouncing back and forth between its surface and his glasses. He’d been similarly silent. His action against Volkov, no matter how small, had clearly been in the Medic’s defence, but from there it was all too unclear. But then, it might not have been. He’d narrowly escaped a threatened punishment with the excuse of an “accident”, and through gritted teeth he’d been believed.

Either way, he acted as if it had never happened.

_You have lost your battle, your reputation, your mind._

Without warning, the gunman stood, and replaced his beloved hat upon his head. He left the room without a word, entering the Fortress corridor, and seemed intent on returning to his room.

_I wonder what else you will stand to lose._

Klaus stood, and followed.

If Mick noticed his footsteps, he made no indication he had done so. He was walking, cool as you please, without a break or falter in his stride, and reached the door that led to his room. He fished in his right pocket without urgency, and drew out a key.

A red-gloved hand hovered over a shoulder.

          “Mick-”

Pain, white-hot pain, in his back and his shoulders and the crown of his head.

Eyes scrunched shut with a familiar terror. His breath was stolen by the impact, but was dragged back with a gasp that held it captive in his lungs and offered no release. His wrists were pinned to the wall he’d been forced against, with a grip that grew tighter and tighter from a figure too strong and too close and growling words of fury into his ear-

_“Don’t fucking touch me.”_

His wrists were released, but his legs gave way. Michael stood and _watched_ as his body sank to concrete, _watched_ as his breaths escaped irregular and pained, but agony of all was the way he turned his back.

There was a distressing finality in the click of the lock.

The panic once-suppressed by Respawn was beginning to overtake him, and he knew that there would be no escaping it. That had been too much- too much like _him._ The sense of dread, of _terror_ wasn't leaving, and the newly crushing weight on his chest could not be shifted. His breaths were still shallow with panic.

Mick wouldn't know that. Mick wouldn't care.

With only that to spur him on, he struggled back to his feet, intent on finding Mikhail and the safety of his arms. Klaus struggled to straighten his back, to raise his chin, to present this constant façade of decorum, but he knew it had to be done. _Medic_ had become a mere mask. Mikhail had become his protector, his singular confidant in a team filled with distrust, and the only man who knew of his attacks.

Half a year ago, Mick would have been the one to hold him, keep him close. To let him listen to the drum of an Übervalved heart. He’d have caught him before he even hit the floor.

He’d have listened to the call of his name.

* * *

          “Well. That was successful.”

Mick rolled his eyes at the comment, offering no more than a huff in reply. The zip of his jacket made its usual yelp, tinny and high-pitched, and he shrugged it off to let it pool on the floor. His well-beloved hat soon followed it.

          “Don’t talk about this now.”

          The clipped reply only drew a laugh from the Spy, a hint of cruelty showing in its tone. “Why not? You have not said a word to him for almost two months, and here you are, blessing him with _four._ I must say I’m impressed, _mon loup_.”

Silence, save the click of tinted glasses.

Undeterred, the Spy stood, moving closer, too close, invading his personal space with nothing less than a smirk. With leather-gloved hands, he played at the buttons of the other’s shirt, and murmured a reply into his ear.

          “Such a _change_ it’s been, _monsieur_ Mundy. To think, such a short time ago, you two were still hiding your little trysts. Where has the time gone?”

          He received a warning growl for his efforts, and the batting away of a hand. “Have you just come here to fuck with me?”

          “ _Non,_ not in that sense.” was the purred reply. “You’re just so much more _fun_ when you’re angry.”

In one rough movement the Spy was falling back to the bed, the Sniper climbing atop him, kissing him bloody with a feral ferocity. They fought for a moment, as they always did, before Mick leant back and hissed through kiss-bruised lips.

          “Shut up and _strip_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be sure to go to http://tf2-administration.tumblr.com/ to get updates, bonus content, and ask characters questions!
> 
> Comments would be very, very appreciated! I'd love to hear what you think of my work


	6. Forward

 

_"Now that I could not go back I was not sure, after all, that I wished to go forward. It was a miserable sensation."_

_― Anna Freeman_

* * *

**October 21st, 1972, 7:36pm**

          “So, uh, what have we got so far?”

Scraps of newspapers, dated Polaroids, and even a personal diary had all been collected in their search, to be compared against their procurement of a calendar. Some amused glances had been shared at its pages, but most said nothing, in favour of the task at hand.

This was more important.

One old Polaroid rested on the left of the table, unchanging and unmoving, a beacon of beginnings that now seemed so far away.

_The New Team Fortress, 28th of May, 1968._

New red uniforms, untainted by mud or by the scuffs of war, bereft of the details that made them who they were. Jeremy still looked fresh-faced, grinning as usual in the face of the camera. His sleeves were not yet rolled up, and showed the wiry muscle he would later go on to develop. Soldier - Jane - had his helmet unusually missing, and had been caught mid-salute with his hand obscuring his eyes. It was almost like a family photo. Pyro, like Spy, however, looked near-identical. The only effect four years had had on them were the steady dark circles around Spy’s eyes, which belied the age the Frenchman fought to hide. Tavish, without his hat, showing off dark curls and a ceaseless grin; below him, Dell, his goggles hung around his neck, stood solid in the very centre of the picture.

Mikhail, an imposing figure at the top, newly decked in a custom vest. Bulletproof, of course. He’d been the first to face Respawn, merely days earlier, in a nail-biting wait for him to reappear. None of them had forgotten it. He'd always remained their leader by default, strong and capable, a protector of sorts for a team so patchwork and unsure. He brought a sort of unity to them all. By his side stood Mick, so young-looking there, sunglasses glinting in the summer light. He hadn’t yet bought the jacket he was so often seen with, but the rim of his hat poked out from behind his shoulders, held by a string around his neck. He was smiling, too.

They stood like divine conscience at the shoulders of the Medic himself. Front row, second from the right, easily seen in shining white and red. He was neat, prim, clean-shaven, with the burn of excitement and intelligence in his eyes. 

Eyes, a year later, that Mick had praised as gorgeous.

          Broken from his thoughts, Klaus turned as Mikhail replied, settling his gaze on the taller man. This little operation had been the brainchild of both him and Angela, Aegis’ Soldier, to help both teams know where they stood. “It is patchy, but we know basics. We know Team Fortress but little more.”

          “And we have the opposite problem. We know recent events, but almost nothing of our situation. We've been kept in the dark.”

The other end of the table held only the pin-up calendar, its pages from the last three months ripped to rest side-by-side. August, September, October 21st, near-blank in their pasts and their futures. August held only baseball scores, the occasional event, but otherwise nothing of note. September was similarly scant. Little occurred, according to Scout, save one particular day he’d marked in stolen Sharpie.

_September 17th, 1972. REUNITED._

Each of their emblems had been squeezed into the little box. It was surprisingly sentimental, especially for Jeremy, who was silently pretending the drawings didn’t exist. He was keeping very insistent eyes on the older photos, and was fooling absolutely no-one.

          “The current President of the United States is Richard Nixon.” came Spy’s voice from the centre, beginning their patchwork timeline. He was one of only two men who had remained in the States during their scattering, and had the distinction of being the only one of the two to pay attention. “Elected in November 1968, inaugurated January ‘69, as expected. The United States remains embroiled in the war in Vietnam. A number of unarmed students protesting said war at Kent State University, Ohio were slaughtered by National Guardsmen.” His burning, icy glare towards Soldier silenced him mid-breath. “My job naturally requires keeping a low profile, especially considering we were in hiding from March onwards. I was, unfortunately, unable to glean any more information without looking suspicious.”

          “That’s fine, those are useful to know.” was an Aegis member’s gentle reply, moving to write the events on some of Michael’s note-paper. She was one of the eldest of the other team, a motherly figure, and spoke with a soft Italian accent. She - the Pyro - had introduced herself as Antonina Morandi. “Anything else? From other countries, perhaps?”

          Kitty spoke up next, moving towards the calendar on the right of the table. “I, um. I have some stuff from last month, if that helps?” She pointed to a particular day - September 10th, 1972 - and continued. “I joined on this day, here. I’d only been home a couple of days before I saw the ad for joining up. I’d been to Munich, for the Olympics - watched the start of the Women’s 200 metres on the 4th, and then…”

She clammed up, after that, shoulders drooping in what seemed to be sorrow. Her arms came to curl around her waist, and Christine’s hand rested on her shoulder, rubbing gentle circles into fabric with her thumb. Comforting, even if she couldn’t hear her.

          “...I have a newspaper, here. I’ll go and get it.”

Without another word she hurried off, escaping the room, and Aegis seemed as confused as their counterparts. Questioning glances were shared between them. Her incredible speed did not seem to be restricted to the battlefield, however, as she quickly returned, and she placed the newspaper onto the table.

          “I know it’s in German, but it was a souvenir of sorts, Ma thought it might sell for good money in the future…”

It was a paper entitled Abendzeitung, with a bright red banner at the top, with the headline dominating the front page. The Olympic logo sat steady in the red.

The words, below, were unmissable.

           _“Games interrupted, after the murders in the village.”_

All eyes had turned to Klaus, then, who was staring at the paper in what could only have been shock. His back was ramrod-straight, almost to hide the horror in his form, and he read the words with a wide blue gaze that offered naught but sorrow.

           _“Nine Israeli hostages are still being held by Arab terrorists.”_ he translated, gravely, and read on. _“They demand the release of two hundred Arab prisoners from Israeli prisons, free escort to the Riem airport, and three jets for flight into an Arab capital. Negotiations remained unsuccessful. The guerillas categorically refused all offers of money in unlimited amounts and substitutes._ How awful. To go to such lengths...”

          “They didn’t save them.” Kitty replied, quietly, and cringed at Klaus’ horrified, piercing gaze. “I mean, they tried, of course they did, but… they failed. They tried to ambush them at an airport but something went really, really wrong. At first I heard that all the hostages survived, but then it changed. Apparently they… they all died.”

There was silence, after that.

Klaus had retreated a little, stepping away from the newspaper, and rubbed at his eyes with his ungloved hands. Kitty herself seemed apologetic. The silence stretched long and uncomfortable, solid with shock, and it was only broken by the soft, quiet voice of Dell.

          “So why would they keep all this from us?”

          “It is easier to control people when they do not have information.” came a gentle reply, this time coming from Angela. “That is what they do - _Ceaușescu_ does - back home in Romania. I was lucky to escape. It is a terrible place, and yet he is still in power. They do not rise up because they fear the unknown.”

She received a nod from Mikhail, then, understanding written across his face.

          “They want to control us.”

* * *

**October 21st, 1972, 11:49pm**

Two hours had come and gone as he’d stared upwards, up to a ceiling still too unfamiliar, chasing a sleep that continued to evade him. He could feel the dark circles forming around his eyes, like so many nights that came before it. Sleep always evaded him; exhaustion did not. He could catch up to exhaustion, or, at least, it could catch up with him, letting him pass out into some dreamless darkness that let him be empty for a while. He knew it was unhealthy. He did it anyway. He always woke up irritable, now, always reaching for the cigarettes that helped his mind to numb, despite all the warnings that he shouldn’t. 

His pillow still smelled like someone else’s smoke.

Closing his eyes only amplified his thoughts, so he kept them open. Hunger disappeared at the sight of food, so he didn’t eat. There was always a way to escape the pain, he thought, as long as you were strong enough for the alternative. The deepening shallows between his ribs mean nothing to him. The loss of sleep was irrelevant.

Anything was better than seeing their faces, so lifeless and still, burned behind his eyes.

Anything was better than this.

* * *

**October 22nd, 1972, 1:22am**

Sleep had not come to him tonight.

Again, everything was too vivid, too raw, his skin crawling with the touch he couldn’t forget. A rough grip from a man twice his size, a man now dead but in memories still living, hot breath like a bull’s that was huffed into his face. The terror he’d felt, pinned there, all sense of pride stripped away like fabric. 

He slipped from the bed with a quiet apology, and received an understanding nod in return. Mikhail knew that he struggled with his sleep. Slipping on some shoes and pulling his coat around his shoulders, Klaus resolved to get himself some air, no matter the wintry conditions outside. The presence of his Medigun had numbed the threat of illness.

He had trudged out into the snow, still thin on the ground, and was illuminated only by the moonlight. 

He had been startled to hear crying.

It was soft, for certain, but loud enough in the midnight silence to be noticeable. They were little, hiccuping sobs, suddenly muffled behind what sounded like gloves, and he realised that he was the cause of it. Inwardly he cringed at the crunch of his shoes on the snow. With softer steps, he approached the corner of the outer wall, and peered around brickwork ice-cold to the touch.

He was met by none other than Kitty.

Her eyes were wide and green as emeralds, staring right at him, and there was a heartbreaking look of _fear_ hiding within them. The poor girl looked like a deer in the headlights of a truck. She was sat on a small pile of snow, a little drift that had been formed by the wind, and clutched what seemed to be a stuffed toy close to her chest. Her gaze was raw with tears, and she was shivering.

           _“Fräulein?”_

She shrank away as he stepped closer, curling tighter into herself, hugging her knees to her chest and hurriedly wiping her eyes. Once it was done, she stood on wobbling legs, and tried to take off past him.

           _“Tá brón orm, rachaidh mé ar ais go dtí mo sheomra ...!”_

           _“Kitty!”_ With one hand he stopped her in her tracks, settling a comforting weight onto her shoulder, and she turned her fearful gaze back to his face. _“Fräulein,_ I am not here to worry or scare you. You are allowed to be here.” he murmured, softly, and she gave a slow nod. “Would you… like to talk about anything?”

She looked like he’d offered her Christmas come early. Again, she nodded, and after a moment she retreated back to her place in the snow, and sat down again. He followed her, carefully. Patting down some of the snow into a decent seat, he sat beside her, and looked out to the fence and the forest beyond.

          “If there’s anything on your mind, you can tell me. I will not tell a soul. I may not have taken the Hippocratic Oath, but there are certain things I will follow.” he whispered, good-naturedly, and looked to her; he received the flicker of a smile in return. Though she immediately looked away again, it was a small victory, and for a second his curiosity got the better of him.

          “What language were you speaking a minute ago?”

          Her face fell a little at that, but she looked out to the sky, green eyes glittering as if to count stars. “I… It was Irish. I’m from Ireland, from Dublin. I’m not American or English or any of that.” she sighed, her broad accent beginning to show through. She cuddled the toy a little closer to her chest, and settled her chin atop its head. “I was trying to hide it from everyone, s-so I could pretend I wasn’t from there. Fat lot of good that did.”

          “Why were you trying to hide it?”

          For a moment, she glanced up at him in confusion, but realisation quickly dawned over her face. “Right, right, you guys have been working since ‘68, haven’t you? They haven’t told you about any of this stuff…” she trailed off for a moment, seeming to rack her brains for the information. “...There’s... there’s basically a civil war happening. It was all political at first, but it’s been gettin’ about religion, y’know? There’s been awful, awful violence, people dying left and right.”

For a moment, there was a shared silence.

          “Some o’my family joined in.”

Klaus looked back to her, then, a look of weary concern on his face. He’d heard this, felt this before, in a world still painful and raw in his mind but ever-fogged by memories repressed. To watch friends and family fall to hatred, to a cause they thought was just and true, willing to hurt others to protect their own.

          “So it was not just your proximity to the events in Munich that scared you.”

She shook her head, gaze falling to the snow. 

          “...It reminded me of home.”

Smiling softly, he settled a gentle hand on her shoulder, the way that Mikhail did for him. It was warm and grounding, never startling, and when he spoke it was with a voice he’d forgotten he possessed.

          “I will tell you a story, _Fräulein.”_

Kitty looked up at him at that, almost childlike once more, eyes fixed on him in a way that would fall enraptured. That emerald gaze was tearful, but wonderfully curious, and he found he’d missed that look of awe. It let him keep a weary smile, even as his tale fell dark.

          "Long ago, when I was very young, I lived in a world filled with fear and hatred. I was barely five years old when my country - when it was still just _Germany_ \- became a full dictatorship, a totalitarian state under the Nazi Party. They began to tell us that some people were lesser than others, saying that they deserved to die, and that there was one perfect race of people.” he murmured, shaking his head. “They did everything they could to eliminate so-called _undesirables_ from the country - Romani people, prisoners of war from the Soviet Union, black people, those with mental health problems, homosexuals - and Jews, of course, most intensely. They chose a scapegoat for their problems, and fought with all their might. It was a truly horrific part of history.”

She nodded, gravely, but said nothing.

          “I lost my father to them. Some form or another of mental illness has always run in my family - we were known as the mad doctors of Rottenburg. I was very, very lucky not to be taken along with him.” Klaus sighed, displacing his glasses for a moment by rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I also feel lucky that my other… _problem..._ was easy to hide. My heart still aches for those who could not hide or change who they were, and had to suffer for it.”

He opened his mouth to speak further, but closed it again. Kitty, on the other hand, had cocked her head in curiosity, brow furrowed as she tried to figure out his meaning. He did not reveal it. For a moment, there was only silence, empty yet comfortably warm.

          “I suppose what I mean to say is that we have both been strong in the face of evil. We have watched our worlds fall apart around us. Things may be bad in Ireland right now, but good will always emerge the victor, I promise you that. No matter how long it takes.” he murmured, looking back to her. “We can either shrink away, hide who we are and do nothing - or we can be proud, own ourselves, fight for what we believe in. I know you can do it, _Kätzchen._ You are stronger than you know.”

          By that point, Kitty was sniffling gently. Nobody had said that in so long. He rubbed her shoulder gently with a hand, blue eyes ensuring she was okay, and smiled as she wiped away the tears. She was still clutching that toy dog to her chest. “Well, enough about all this sadness, _ja?”_ Klaus chuckled, finally, shaking his head as if to shift the memories away. What remained was something playful in his eyes, a mischief he’d missed for so long. “I’ve noticed you have taken quite a shine to our Scout, Jeremy. What do you think of him?”

          She flushed pink at that, blushing brightly at his mention, and looked away with an indignant squeak. “H-He’s cool! He’s cool. I guess. Fun to be around. He’s, um, really nice.”

          “I’ll be sure to let him know.” he replied, mischievously, and cackled at her whine of embarrassment. “Oh, relax, _Fräulein_ , I would not do that to you. If you really are interested in him, I would recommend telling him so. You would make his year, I assure you - he’s certainly taken a liking to you. He’s been acting differently, lately. If he tries to impress you with something ridiculous or bone-headedly, suicidally dangerous, please do not hold him to it. We’ve all been Team Fortress for years, with mostly imbeciles for company, and the presence of Respawn has... _dampened_ our consideration of death. He’s more intelligent than many might think.”

Kitty had smiled at that, at least, thank God. She had certainly seemed to cheer up with the mention of him, and she looked out to the snow once more with a gentle sigh. For a while, they were wonderfully silent, watching the easy sway of the trees as they stretched towards the stars. It was tranquil, blessedly. Peaceful.

          “If I can ask… what’s going on with you an’ your team?”

           _Ah. I should have known that would come up eventually._ Her gentle question caused an amused little sigh to fall from the Doctor’s lips, and he chuckled lightly, once, before he spoke. “That is a long story, _Kätzchen_ , and one with too many twists and turns to comprehend. The shortened version is this: our team’s Sniper, Mick, and I… we were lovers.” he began, the words quiet and painfully pensive. “The whole team was embroiled in a struggle against Gray Mann, his robots, and the former Team Fortress. Many terrible, terrible things happened to all of us, and events tore us all apart. We are still trying to pick up the pieces.” he murmured, softly, his voice trailing away. “Mick, in particular, experienced a dreadful turn of events, as did I. We have not spoken for… for some time.”

Another silence, as the girl’s brow furrowed in confusion.

          “I… I don’t really get the whole… men-loving-men thing...” she muttered, cringing a little in nervousness, but turned back to look at him. “But, y’know… I hope you guys can sort it all out. I can tell shit happened to you, Klaus, seen enough of it back home. You deserve to be happy, just like everyone else.”

With that, she looked down at the toy in her arms. Slowly, she lifted it, setting the little dog in his lap, and turned her green gaze back to him.

          “I think… I think you need Waldi more than I do.”

His smile grew at that, widening and widening, the feeling so warm and genuine that it filled his body and drove away the cold. He held it so the little dachshund dog looked up at him, blue eyes staring blankly up at his own, and felt a comfort he’d been missing for so long.

          “...Thank you.”


	7. Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick author's warning for very *very* heavy gore in this chapter! If you'd like to skip it, I'd recommend using your browser's "find" function to skip to the line “Doktor!”. I'm so sorry it took so long to update this, but I really hope you enjoy!

 

_“You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control.”_

_― Megan Chance_

* * *

He woke up to the smell of damp, and the feeling that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Slipping from the bed, he found the fabric scratched and prickled at his skin, and felt the floor like ice beneath his feet. He felt the cold night air waft through an open window.

He felt a shiver down his spine.

The door-handle felt almost like it would stick to his skin, tearing off the flesh if he held too long.This was all wrong. He could hear the faintest of sounds from the corridor, muffled by the walls, noises he could not name or place or even describe. Others were here, too. Pulling the door open with a shivering creak, he stepped out into the darkened corridor, and met a sight that made his blood run cold.

The Spy was here too.

Not his own Spy, not Cecil, but the other one, the former one, the Spy of the _original_ Team Fortress. The one he'd worked with in months gone by. He had emerged from a room two doors down with a look of grim disinterest, blue uniform stained with still-dripping scarlet, and had passed the nervous doctor with a sigh.

His muttered words sent panic through his veins.

           _"He was a gutless coward."_

_Oh, no._

His rush to the door was a mistake. Pushing it open made him meet the stench of death itself, of fresh blood and waste and all manner of horrific things, and the sight before him made his stomach turn.

It was Cecil.

The Spy was laying on his side, expensive suit-fabric darkening with blood, and his face was wrought with horror. Soft leather gloves could never staunch the flow. It was collecting beneath him in a morbid pool, gathering in the cracks of the floorboards, steadily growing as it left the slash across his stomach. 

_Disembowelment,_ his mind told him. 

An undignified death.

His cyanide cigarette had fallen from his fingers, laying soaked and useless in the blood, robbing him of a death on his own terms. The poor man was shaking. As the original Spy had so gruesomely implied, the man’s intestines were spilling from the wound, long ropes of flesh tangling with desperate, clutching hands. It was horrific. The Frenchman’s eyes were blown wide with abject terror, staring up at his teammate, but his attempt to speak drew only blood to tumble from his mouth. 

           _“I-I’m sorry.”_

Klaus’ own words shook as they left his lungs, nausea running rampant through his body. They felt weak and afraid and so unimaginably helpless that it shook him right down to the bone. This shouldn’t phase him, couldn’t, he’d seen the man’s insides so many times before, seen his blood pool just like this, seen him die before his eyes in battles won or lost.

But this was _different._

This was out of his hands, out of his control. There was nothing he could do as he watched his friend die before his eyes, taking in one last shuddering breath, slate-blues now glassy and unseeing.

He fell limp, and the air rattled from his lungs.

_Oh, God._

The sound was a painful, distressing finality, one that shattered the doctor from his frozen state. This was too much. Stumbling back to the door, he clutched at the frame as an empty stomach emptied itself anew, horror and revulsion running through him as he retched. He had to get out of here. He hurriedly stepped from the room, closing the door behind him, wiping his mouth as tears dripped from his eyes.

_Please. Let him be the only one._

He advanced along the corridor with shaky steps, one hand on the wall for support, and prayed that he would see nothing more like this.

Door after door after door. Locked, locked, locked. He didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse, being unable to see their contents, but the corridor’s end changed all that.

_Jeremy._

His door was wide open, letting the acidic white light billow into the hall, and Klaus approached with terror in his veins.

_Please. Please, not him as well._

Even that had been too much to ask.

Only the dog tags around his neck left him recognisable, his baseball bat too stained with blood to know. It had splintered with the force. The poor boy lay sprawled on the bedroom floor, limbs bent at odd angles, as if there had been a struggle before he died.

Shards of skull lay shattered in his blood.

A small clump of his brain still clung to the bat’s end, disgustingly, a brain they’d always joked he did not have. Now he could never use it, could never use that potential they'd always seen in him, could never-

          “What's the matter, _mate,_ can't take any more?”

_No, please._

_Not him._

_Not him, not him, not him._

Leaving the room and the horrors laid out before him, Klaus rushed to the end of the corridor, hands shaking as they faltered at the door.

          “Would have expected more from an Australian!”

That voice was one that made his blood run cold, his hair stand on end, his heart pound like a drum within his chest. It was a voice he’d never wanted to hear again. His fear told him to turn back, to go back to his room, to lock the door, to hide under the covers like a child and _wait._

His fear also drove him onward.

With a shaky, steeling breath, the doctor pushed at the door, bracing himself for the sight he’d be met with.

           _“Fuckin’ pathetic.”_

It was Mick.

Oh, God, it was Mick.

He was barely on his feet, his weight held by the former Demoman, the former Soldier, their cruel grins filled with teeth too sharp, too white. They were keeping him up by the arms, forcing him to take every blow, cackling as their leader sank punch after punch into his stomach. The Sniper gave a desperate gasp with every one, clutching for the air being driven out of him, but was already too weak to escape.

The Heavy.

The huge gorilla of a man had a smirk stretching at his lips, eyes entirely too gleeful at the infliction of such pain, but he hadn't noticed the doctor yet. He was too busy with this victim. Standing back, he gave the tall, lithe man a once-over, brow contorting into a frown of faux-concern.

Then he cracked his knuckles, and sank another strike into his jaw.

          "God, sometimes you just need a good punchin' bag, right, kid? Gets _all_ the anger out."

Mick spat on the floor in response. What once was saliva was now mostly blood, sprayed down to stain the dirty floor, a dislodged tooth falling to the earth.

           _"Go to hell."_

A vicious uppercut had him almost falling backwards, the two men forcing him to take the brunt of the blow, and the Sniper gave a grunt of pain endured. If there was one thing Mick was, it was _stubborn._ The man wouldn't stay down for love nor money, especially not to brutes such as these, and that was something that Klaus loved about him.

_Loved._

He'd missed that word.

With both fear and anger boiling in his veins, the doctor could only watch, observing the pain the former Heavy wrought. He was disgusting. Klaus had never witnessed anyone so _sadistic,_ so _delighting_ in the causing of such agony, so happy to enact the most horrific of acts. He'd seen most of them firsthand.

He'd been at the mercy of that strength, of that sneer, of the wicked ways in which that cruel mind worked.

He'd conditioned him to _fear._

Every fibre of his body was still telling him to run. To turn his back on his teammate, to run back down the hallway, to hide beneath the bed and pretend none of this was happening. He couldn't watch another punch. He couldn't watch another strike, sinking into his old lover's nose, breaking bone and cartilage with a sickening crunch that sent blood pouring over lips he'd kissed. But, God, he was. He was still here, still watching, with blue eyes so wide like a deer caught in the headlights of a truck.

          "Well, well! Didn't think _you'd_ be here to watch the show!"

_Oh, Scheiße, oh Gott, bitte, nein, geh weg, lass mich gehen, bitte-_

Panic ran rampant through his mind as the _monster_ approached, his swaying gait and widening arms marking him as predator, looming over the doctor, his prize and his prey.

          "Come to watch me get rid of your _ex?"_

_Rührt ihn nicht, nicht Sie ihn wagen berühren, Gott -_

He could do nothing as the huge man turned on Mick, chuckling as he struggled, and reached out to grip fingers into hair.

          "Lights out, buddy."

He _screamed_ as Mick came crashing to the floor.

The Heavy was _grinning_ as he ground the Sniper's face into the concrete, smearing blood beneath him, one knee resting solid on the other's spine. He was pinned there like a helpless bug, that weight pressed between his shoulder blades. His breaths were hitching as his broken nose was ground into the floor, but still he said nothing, lips tightly sealed as they always should have been.

A professional, as always.

Standing slowly, the former Heavy gave one long, sickening grin towards the Medic, before kicking the Sniper viciously in the ribs. He did it again and again and _again,_ trying to wrench some sound of agony from the other man, ignoring the pounding of fists against his back, and the screams for him to _stop._

          "Stop it, stop it you _animal,_ leave him alone, get the _fuck_ away from him!"

The Heavy rounded on _him,_ then, sneer having turned into a _snarl,_ and shoved him back with power enough to topple him.

           _“Can it,_ nurse. Be grateful you ain’t next.”

He didn’t have a chance to reply before the Heavy turned back to his victim, raised one heavy military boot, and stomped all his weight down onto the back of his neck.

_CRUNCH._

The sound was sickening. It shook Klaus to the very core, to hear, to witness such a herald of death, to watch as that boot raised and fell and raised again, over and over and over, until the man beneath could only twitch.

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no-!_

His throat stang and burned and felt torn with every breath, but he couldn’t hear himself screaming. All he could do was scramble away, away from this horror and the beast who enacted it, away from the man who wheezed and gasped through a shattered jaw.

And then _he_ turned.

          “C’mere, _nursie._ Let’s go and have some fun of our own.”

Howls and screams and begs for mercy all fell upon deaf ears.

He reached out for him, for Mick, for the man he’d loved so dearly for so long and so much and watched _die,_ he’d watched him die before his eyes and swore to himself never again but God in Heaven he was laying there with a ruined jaw and a shattered throat and the life fading from those ocean eyes and _oh, God, no, please, God._

That awful hand was back around his wrist again, clenching tighter, bruising pale skin as he was lifted to his feet, almost pulling his arm from its socket as he struggled and lashed out and tried so desperately to escape, but found it all in vain as he was hauled into those arms and carried towards the monster’s room and-

           _“MICK-!”_

* * *

**October 22nd, 1972, 2:58am**

           _“Doktor!”_

The Medic could not seem to hear him as he thrashed and struggled in his arms, kicking out and screaming his denial until his voice was hoarse. Mikhail had no choice but to let him go, to watch as the man stumbled from the bed, curling up in the darkest corner of the room as he panted and begged and fought his racing heart.

          “Get away, stay away, mein Gott, please, _don’t-”_

He trailed off at that, hitched and panting breaths overtaking him, hands searching through raven hair and gripping tight enough to hurt. Another panic attack. This was happening so often, too often, claiming the oft-composed doctor into fits of abject terror. One could only imagine what he’d been through, what he’d suffered at the hands of that man.

He’d refused any further detail.

Carefully, Mikhail shifted from the bed, as quietly as he could, and settled at a safe distance from his _Doktor._

          “S-Stay away, for God’s sake!”

Those quiet words were stuttered, but had some force behind them, a desperate, tired anger in his tone, one he would never use against Mikhail. It was a voice on the verge of giving up. He could only assume that the dream was still claiming him, making the Russian’s own comforting strength become one so feared, making him the brutish man that had been his predecessor. Some nights he wished he could be short like Dell, or scrawny like Cecil, so Klaus would not mistake him for another.

There was nothing he could do.

The poor man was still shaking, breaths shallow, back now pressed against the wall he sat beside. He’d hidden his head between his knees, in some desperate folly of protection, one hand out to fend off his pursuer, the other clutching around a panicked throat.

           _“Doktor._ It is me. It’s Mikhail.”

It took him a moment, but slowly, surely, the doctor’s gaze raised above his knees, peeking out at the man who sat before him. He was still obviously terrified, those blues wracked with fear and pain and exhaustion, but they softened a little at the sight of him.

          “M-Mikhail, I… _Gott,_ oh, God, I thought you were-” he began, but choked upon his words, fighting off a fearful sob. “J-Jeremy, Jeremy and Cecil, they’re, they’re dead, Mikhail, I was too late, I couldn’t save them-”

           _“Doktor._ Listen to me. Was just a nightmare. They are safe, I promise you.”

The terrified man didn’t seem convinced. Shaking his head, desperately fast, he struggled to his feet and made for the door. He only stopped when Mikhail took his hand - not his wrist, never his wrist, he’d learned that much - but he still struggled and pulled, with an urgency the Heavy could not name or place, and he had no choice but to speak again.

          “Come back to bed. Please. No need to wake them both.”

          “No, no, you don’t understand, please, Mikhail, I-” he replied, that painful terror remaining in his eyes, and pulled again. “Mick, they hurt Mick, he almost died but I don’t know for sure, I can still save him, I can still _fix this-”_

To fix _what,_ the Heavy did not know. All he could do was take one long breath, and release it as a sigh, knowing the doctor’s mind could not be changed.

          “Go, then. Go to check on him. He is not hurt, _Doktor,_ but if it will put your mind at rest…” he trailed off, as Klaus pulled from his weakening grip, and slipped away.

_Не смей снова причинять ему боль._

* * *

He couldn’t help it.

He knew all this was stupid. He knew he was alive, he knew the former team were dead, he knew that Mick was safe in his bed at this hour.

But he had to be sure.

He knocked on the door as loudly as he dared, hands still shaking with nerves, and waited in that painful silence.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Something.

He could hear shuffling from beyond the door, of tired, heavy footsteps, and a muffled groan of annoyance. At least he was awake. Klaus could only stand there as the footsteps got closer, panic beginning to return to his heart, and he hurriedly wiped away tears.

The door opened.

There he was, there was Mick, as strong and intact as he ever was, rubbing at his eyes to shift away the sleep. He looked _exhausted._ He did not speak, only stared, but his gaze held an expectant insistence, as if daring the man to say something.

_This had better be good,_ it said. _Spit it out._

          “I-I’m sorry for waking you up, Herr Sniper, b-but I just… I had a nightmare.” he admitted, sheepishly, realising how ridiculous that sounded. He sounded like a child again, running to his parents from the monsters under his bed. “I, I watched you dying. It was horrific. I had to… I had to be sure you were alive. I-I’m sorry.”

No response.

Klaus’ gaze dropped to the floor, then, body heavy with the weight of guilt and shame and _panic._ This had been a bad idea, a terrible idea, he should never have come here. He should never have knocked on this door, should never have made such a fool of himself, should have curled up next to Heavy and cried it all away. He watched the other’s feet as they turned, and he heard the three short steps it took to reach the bed.

          “I-I’m sorry. I’ll leave you now. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

With an undignified sniff, the doctor settled his racing heart, and raised his gaze to steal one final look.

Mick was waiting for him.

He lay on his side, gaze averted, but it was unmistakable - his arms were outstretched, inviting and warm, his hand raising the duvet high above his body. There was something in his expression, something petulant but almost weary, something soft and requesting and _familiar._

He said nothing.

A flick of his wrists beckoned the other closer, assumedly before he changed his mind, and the doctor did just that. He swallowed back his nerves, turning to close the door behind him, and made those three, short, quiet steps to the bed.

          “T-Thank you.”

He gained no response from that, but that was okay. This was a start. There was a little of that old warmth here, just a flicker, a spark, but that was enough. Someday it would be like nothing had ever changed.

He crawled in beside the Sniper, curling up against his chest, and felt safe.

The man’s warmth was familiar, comfortable, a relic of months gone by, and he couldn’t help but nuzzle into his shirt, that old scent filling his nose. Just as predicted, the thick winter blanket was tucked around his body, one broad hand settling between shoulder blades, and he felt a pointed chin settle gently in his hair.

This was enough.


	8. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading! Check out http://tf2-administration.tumblr.com for extra stuff and to interact with me! There are playlists and art already there, you can follow the blog for update posts, and the submit box is open for anything people might make. I would honestly cry with joy if people made fanart!
> 
> On another, more important note, this chapter in particular is dedicated to my dearest, closest friends - you all know who you are. You brighten my life. Thank you for being here. <3

 

_“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”_

_― Frank Herbert_

* * *

**October 22nd, 1972, 8:16am**

          Their breakfast was unusually calm.

The two teams had come together like before, trickling into the room as the early morning fell to more godly hours, sleep-heavy steps drawn by coffee and cooking. The scents wafted through the air and into the corridors they shared, rousing the mercenaries one by one, bringing them all together into a quiet, sleepy haze.

Wisps of cigarette-smoke filled the air, and all was peaceful.

Cecil, always the early riser, leant perched on the very edge of the work-top, observing the morning with an ever-judging gaze. He did it every morning. His was a perpetual search for weaknesses, for cracks in old-forged armour, his mind eternally alert. Some wondered if he ever slept. His opposite, however, did not seem to have such worries, and sauntered in a while after him, settling into a chair with hair immaculate and makeup flawless.

He shot her a glare.

She winked back.

Rolling his eyes, he turned away, to observe the entrance of his straggling teammates. Mikhail had arrived not long after him, as per usual, followed soon after by Dell and his enduring routine. All three delighted in the early morning, seeing it as an opportunity for something, _anything_ other than an hour's extra sleep. Idle hands, and all that. The other Fortress mercenaries trickled in at their own pace, each in varying states of tiredness, some sporting bags around their eyes.

Many of them woke to Klaus' screaming, night after night after night.

The women of Aegis, thankfully, had no such worry in their side of the base, but still arrived as drowsy and lethargic as the others. Some, such as Kitty, took a seat only to slump down onto the table, groaning in annoyance at such an early wake-up.

The morning alarm had taken them all by surprise.

After a while, most everyone had gathered into the room. Pulling up the rear was Mick, who looked surprisingly well-rested considering his recent state. Many of them had worried for his sleeping patterns. He was fully dressed already, sporting an oversized jumper to keep out the cold, the sleeves rolled up as if to silently insist he could handle it.

Behind him, of course, was Klaus.

They walked in together, the gunman holding the door for him, and both looked as calm and comfortable as the days before their courtship.

It wasn't how it used to be. But this was a start.

Patting the doctor on the shoulder, the Sniper raised an inquisitive eyebrow toward him, as if to question whether he was okay. He received a pleased nod for his trouble. Satisfied, he offered a nod of his own to the man beside him, and wandered away to make his morning coffee.

Klaus carried a small box, as he usually did on Sunday mornings, which rattled slightly as he moved. It seemed the Aegis Medic, Ekundayo, had the same. It sat before her on the desk as she waited for her team to settle, stamped with the team’s logo just as Klaus’ was. He gave only a questioning glance to it before he sat down, and Fortress seemed to perk up at the sight of it, ready for its contents.

A small orange bottle for Jeremy, first, with a plastic, white twist-cap. It bobbed and tumbled as it rolled towards him, and he caught it deftly off the edge of the table, grinning at his usual little trick. No opportunity could pass the boy by. Klaus handed out the meagre contents of the box, prescriptions and medications and the like, things that would make their lives between their Respawns a little easier.

A small box was tossed to Cecil, with a quiet glare, and the usual warning that _the cancer cannot be staved away forever._

Cecil rolled his eyes, took another puff of his light, and replied that he would not live long enough to let it kill him.

Ekundayo, meanwhile, had opened her much smaller box - most of its bulk being made for security - and had handed out its contents with easy regularity. They were quite used to this. The sound of the opening lid had made every Aegis member look up in anticipation, as if by a Pavlovian reaction, and a few had eagerly approached to help with distribution. From the box had emerged nine separate little containers, almost like petri dishes, no larger than a coin and perhaps an inch deep. They each held a class emblem. Within each was a small, clear pill, one of those plastic-like kinds with two halves, and within those in turn were tiny, glowing crystals.

          “Australium?”

All eyes had turned to Tavish at that, his chest puffing up proudly as Ekundayo confirmed it to be true. Seems he’d remembered from his time with Daniëlle. To the inquisitive gazes of the others, the Medic explained their use of Australium, what they did, and why. She explained the way they needed it, craved it like any other user, and the meaning behind it all. Most looked fascinated - others apathetic. They cared little for what drove the other Team.

Aegis took the pills in unison, and all gave a sigh of relief.

Antonina, elsewhere, had put herself on kitchen duty. Her “power” - over the production of heat, no less - had been put to good use for breakfast, heating pans in her hand when there was no room to put them down. She had steadily produced bacon and eggs all morning, quite happy to fulfill the oddest of requests, and smiled and whistled as she worked. There was quite the mothering aura about her. She was delighted to receive her fellow Pyro’s help, and chatted amicably to them through the whole thing, not seeming to mind the sounds from behind the mask.

Mick and Klaus appeared comfortable. They sat beside each other, surprisingly, which was a refreshing change from the stand-offs of the weeks before. Though not much conversation was shared between them - quiet comments on the morning, small talk with the others, a joke that made them both chuckle - it was far more than all the mornings they’d had previously. It was a wonderful change.

Despite the unnerving nature of the Facility, it was slowly beginning to feel like home.

That is, until Miss Pauling entered.

Though she had been a sight for sore eyes during their reunion, her presence now set most of them on edge, knowing her loyalty to those who kept them here. She represented Helen, the two Administrators that watched over them, the people who controlled their every waking moment.

She held nine lives in the palm of her hand.

          “Good morning, everyone.” she began, as she gained the gaze of thirty-five eyes. “You are all wanted in the main hall in an hour. There’s an announcement that the Administrators wish to make, and attendance is compulsory. That’s all!”

Her last sentence was more saccharine than most, the words tripping from a smile that didn't reach her eyes. There were bags under them, ringed purple from lack of sleep, but none dared mention anything about it. 

She turned on her heel as quickly as she came, and was gone.

* * *

          They were lined up again, in that long, blank room, and brought to silence.

It was strange to be arranged as they were - two lines of nine, in such tight formation - but the room was plenty big enough for all of them. Again, they stood facing that blank white wall, exchanging side-glances and questioning looks.

They knew what this meant.

Only two days ago had they lined up just like this, unaware of what was to come. Only two days ago had they been introduced to a Team just like themselves.

Only two days ago had their worlds turned upside-down.

They wondered who they would meet this time. What specialism they would have. Fortress had Respawn, Aegis had their Australium - who knew what this new Team would have at their disposal. _Something_ would make them unique, _something_ would make them special, unusual. They wouldn’t be here, otherwise. They’d be slaughtered.

Their Administrators entered - Helen on their left, Stephen on the right - and looked to each other, cracked lips curling into smirks.

The wall shimmered, and faded away.

          “Allow us to introduce Team Barricade.”

They were _children._

Nine _children,_ so young and fresh-faced and innocent, dressed up like soldiers for a war with no hope for an end. The eldest seemed to barely be old enough for high school, let alone something like _this._

Someone broke rank from the group, and scrambled forward.

           _“KATIE!”_

The next few moments were a blur. Mick, it was Mick, sprinting from one end of the line to the other, stumbling, reaching out to the other team with horror on his face. Two of the guards, running in almost from nowhere, aiming something that looked like a gun, then a blinding flash of pain, white-hot pain, pain that made him howl and collapse and convulse. 

As he was dragged away, he still found the energy to struggle and kick and shout, desperate to stay in the room, to get back to the little girl at the end of the line. She stood there, crying and screaming for him, tugging at their Administrator’s hand as he stood firm.

The last thing Mick saw was his _grin._

* * *

          He awoke, aching and sickened, on the ash-grey carpet of the common room floor.

His heart was pounding with terror.

Any effort to get up was met with a threat from the guards, aiming rifles at his head, the laser sights glinting on his glasses. They never said a fucking word. It incensed him.

To die during ceasefire meant a three-day _wait._

He was left to sit there, almost shivering with horror, as he heard the muffled noises of the meeting, the faraway words he could not decipher alone.

His mind turned to the sounds. The tick of a wall-clock, the driving patter of the snow outside, the tap of a guard’s impatient boot. It was driving him insane. Every little sound grated upon his nerves, frayed as they were with all that had happened, the itch of paranoia starting to prickle at his back. This was all wrong. This was so very, very wrong.

The huge metal door slid open, and his heart leapt from his chest.

           _“DADDY!”_

He barely had a chance to turn before she was sprinting to him, barrelling past the guards that watched him, and he reached out to her with panic in his eyes. Almost in an instant she was in his arms, clinging so tight and close to him, and he broke down into tears for the first time in weeks.

          “M-My baby, my girl, my little girl…!”

He cradled her close as they both shook, one hand tucked safely around her waist, the other strong and solid in those auburn locks. His breaths came out in shudders. Trembling lips kissed at her hairline, trying to soothe her as she sniffled and cried, murmuring the softest words of comfort he could.

          “It’s alright, it’s alright, I’m here, baby girl, I’m here…”

A small crowd had amassed, but he took no notice of them all, his focus fixed upon the child in his arms. He sat there on the floor as he rocked them both. It was mostly for her sake, but it was clear some of it was for him - gentle rocking, releasing all the energy of terror, finding that rhythm again.

His heart was drumming in his chest.

There was nothing but horror in his eyes, wide and blue and filled with such unimaginable _pain._ Tears dripped down his cheeks unfettered. Still, he hid it. For _her._ He sat and rocked and hushed her, patient and gentle, until her sobs quietened to sniffles once again.

          “Daddy’s here. Daddy’s here, baby. It’s all gonna be alright.”

Carefully, he leant back to look at her, to wipe the tears from her cheeks with a gentle thumb. “I… I never thought I’d see you here. I didn’t want to see you here, not like this. Where’s mummy? What happened, darlin’?”

The girl’s lip wobbled once more at that, and she shook her head, threatening to break down into tears again. She couldn’t bring herself to answer.

          “Oh, oh sweetheart… it’s okay, baby girl, you don’t have to tell yet. This must have been so much for you.” he whispered, softly, reaching out to stroke her hair again. “You tell me when you’re ready, alright? S’not important now. All I care about right now is _you.”_

Watching her nod, Mick pulled the jumper up and off his own shoulders, helping her into the garment as it hung loose upon her frame. Warmth, warmth and comfort, that was what she needed now. Simple things. Stability for a life upturned. He gathered her into his arms once more after that, lifting her off her feet, and stood as her legs clung tight around his waist.

The Spy’s voice cut through the silence.

          “A daughter.”

It was inquisitive, almost _incredulous,_ telling of information even he had not discovered.

           _“You. You,_ of all people, have a _daughter.”_

          “Yeah.” Mick replied, simply, hitching the girl up to sit better in his arms. She nuzzled into his neck, and stayed silent. “This is Katie. M-My little angel.”

          “And when were you planning on _telling us?”_

Mick glanced away at that, cuddling her close, and had the audacity to look _sheepish._

           _“...never.”_

The look on Spy’s face was thunderous, his thoughts unreadable as always. Those stormy slate-blue eyes were as horrified as his own, but held some sort of _jealousy_ in them. 

Mick was one of the only men alive who knew _why._

He watched as Cecil stormed away from him, likely to smoke in the corner of the room, to observe all these happenings with a watchful eye. That was his preferred course of action. The others were beginning to filter in now, escorting the little Barricade members, making sure there was room enough for all.

From the corner of his eye, Mick spotted Antonina, and his heart sank in his chest. She was cradling a little girl, much like he was, whispering comforting words into a tiny ear.

          “Yours, too?”

She turned, and nodded in reply, sharing the same look of horror in her eyes.

           _“M-Mia gioia._ My Bianca.”

Bianca was older than his daughter, though still not by much, and clung to her mother just the same as Katie had to him. Regardless of their age, the whole of Barricade were _children,_ children who had no place in a world like this.

Carefully, gently, Mick moved over to the sofa they all shared, sinking down to keep his daughter close. It wasn’t long before she shifted, sitting right in his lap, and nuzzled to his neck with another hitching sob.

          “S’alright, darlin’. I’ve got you.” he murmured, rubbing her back, feeling the way her breaths were beginning to slow. Poor thing had cried herself exhausted. He sat still for her, allowing her to get comfortable, and stroked gently at her hair until she slept.

She slept deep and soundly in his arms.

          “I… didn’t know you had a daughter, Mick.”

Klaus’ voice was the one that cut through the silence. Mick blinked and shook his head as if waking from a trance, and watched the doctor as he sat beside him. He didn’t know any time had passed at all. The three teams had spread about the room, talking quietly to one another, and Klaus had moved from Mikhail to speak to him.

Mikhail watched him like a hawk.

          “She looks like you, you know. You have the same eyes.”

A smile crept onto Mick’s face at that, subtle and sweet, and he turned to look at the doctor once more. 

          “I… I remember seeing her, _holding_ her for the first time. She was so tiny, I… I was so scared she might _break.”_ he chuckled, gently, glancing away as if in shyness. “I couldn’t believe that… that a man like _me_ could be blessed with something so _fragile.”_

There was a light in his eyes nobody had seen in weeks. A sort of wistfulness lingered in his gaze, taking over those ocean blues as they blurred with tears. His voice was soft, and gentle, and emotional, holding all the pain repressed within, the years of keeping those words so hidden away.

          “And when she opened her eyes, and looked up at me, _God…_ that was it, then and there. I was gone.”

A father’s pride, lighting up that smile.

          “I knew she would be my life.”


	9. Scar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading! Check out http://tf2-administration.tumblr.com for extra stuff and to interact with me! There are playlists and art already there, you can follow the blog for update posts, and the submit box is open for anything people might make. I would honestly cry with joy if people made fanart!
> 
> This chapter marks the 1st Anniversary of this fanfiction. I can't thank you all enough for your support for all this time, and I truly treasure every one of you. Thank you, everyone!

_“The worst type of crying wasn't the kind everyone could see--the wailing on street corners, the tearing at clothes. No, the worst kind happened when your soul wept and no matter what you did, there was no way to comfort it. A section withered and became a **scar** on the part of your soul that survived." _

_― Katie McGarry_

* * *

_It feels like his whole life has led up to this moment._

_He’s been a blubbering mess for God knows how long. He’s sat through screams and howls of pain and tears, so many tears, tears he could not wipe away and cries he could not hush. He’s watched his wife clutch at his hand, felt her grip against his own, felt the crushing pressure that made his bones creak and joints pop._

_He’s watched the miracle._

_He’s seen the child cleaned up and checked and finally passed into her mother’s arms, all soft and pink and new, and heard the little whimpers that made his heart flutter._

_“Hello, baby girl...” his wife coos, ever so softly, voice still tired and hoarse from the hours past. There are rings around her eyes, the proof of her own exhaustion, but they’re now awash with the sheen of tears. “...our little Katie, finally here.”_

_He can’t help but lean in to look, to see his daughter up close._

_It takes his overwhelmed mind a moment to realise she’s blurry, everything’s far too blurry to see, his eyes are too full of tears to see anything at all. He takes a moment to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. He can hear those sweet little sounds, and the laughter of his wife, and he knows nothing else in the world will ever matter._

_“Here she is, Micky.” his wife says, looking at him with a smile that transcends time. “Here’s our little girl. Katie Rose Mundy, ready to face the world.”_

_He hears another whimper, and they both turn back to their little girl, watching as her tiny face screws up, watching as she cries. His wife - his Lily - seems so very calm, soothing her so softly, but he can’t help the way his heart twists with fear. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, why his little girl is crying so soon, how on earth he can fix it. He doesn’t know. It feels like some great mystery, something his wife knows and he does not, like the two can simply speak without words._

_A mother’s touch, his own mother used to say. A mother’s touch is all it takes._

_He watches as those cries melt away, as quickly as they came, back to sniffles and then on into silence. He watches, almost mesmerised, as their child has her first feeding, suckling hungrily, and quietens in her arms._

_She’s beautiful._

_Their child, their daughter, is strange and new and pink and soft, but she’s beautiful. She’s theirs. She has the makings of her mother’s nose, and looks so small and fragile in those arms, and Mick finds himself entranced._

_His little girl. His Katie._

_There is the hustle and bustle of doctors, checking more things and asking questions, but it is still all a blur to him. Through the swinging door he can see balloons, gifts, and flowers awaiting the new arrival, neither blue nor pink right now, eager for a nine-month revelation._

_They can wait._

_As the storm passes, he can finally see his daughter again, safely bundled into Lily’s arms. She’s all squirmy and sweet, like a little wriggling worm, and it makes him smile._

_And then, Lily hands her to him._

_His mind bursts into another spark of panic, hands shaking, and he glances back to Lily in confusion - he, he can’t do this, he doesn’t know how. What if he drops her? What if something bad happens, what if she cries?_

_She chuckles at the sight of him, and insists._

_“There. There, that’s it, you’ve got her. Keep her head up, yeah, just like that.”_

_She’s settled into his arms, safe and secure, and it’s like the whole world falls away around him. She’s everything. She’s making little noises, little curious sounds at the change of scent, of warmth, of the arms that hold her, and he feels his heart race with every one._

_He doesn’t deserve this._

_That voice in the back of his mind is back again, threatening to poison this perfect happiness, accusative and cruel. You don’t deserve this, it says, you don’t deserve her. You don’t get to take lives out of the world, only to accept one into it._

_And then she opens her eyes._

_His heart stops._

_They’re blue, blue as the day is long, and identical to his own. That same stormy ocean hue, intelligent and beautiful. They stare up at him, unfocused but still so fascinated, inquisitive even as he tries not to shake._

_“Hey, darlin’... it’s me. It’s daddy.”_

_He can see his wife smiling in the corner of his eye, and he feels one of his own spreading across his face, beaming down at the baby in his arms. He can’t believe it. He smiles until his cheeks ache, and then on for even longer, cooing at his angel, his Katie._

_Her little hand reaches out to him, and he offers up a finger, gasping at the way she grips._

_His life belongs to her._

* * *

**October 22nd, 1972, 9:38am**

          As if waiting for him, there was a gift on Mick’s desk once he returned to his room.

A bouquet of white lilies.

They were beautiful, as beautiful as the woman he'd married, sunny and elegant and filling his heart with warmth. Perhaps they were from her. He approached them, leaning in to sniff at their scent, but something caught his eye at the very last second.

There was a tiny little note, written in deep purple ink.

_Sorry for your loss._

* * *

          It was ten minutes before he could breathe.

Those four little words made the world come crashing down. His carefully cultivated reality had been cut down in one fell stroke, destroyed wholly by _flowers_ and the implication they brought.

She was gone.

He sank down to his knees within moments, curled upon the floor with his head pressed against the rug, feeling like the pain would tear him apart at the seams.

Being shot was nothing like this. Bleeding out into the water was nothing like this.

Dying was nothing like this.

With shaking hands he fished the ring out from around his neck, holding it in trembling palms, pressing it to his lips with eyes wide with horror. This couldn’t be happening. Not this, not again, not another one. He couldn’t live with another one. 

Mother, Father, Mother, Father, lover, daughter, wife.

He heard the door open behind him, but didn’t turn to it, could not turn to it. Agony consumed him. He wanted to scream, he wanted to scream and cry and tear apart the walls, rip away plaster until it crumbled in his hands, punch at his window until it shattered.

All he could do was _sob_.

He heard Spy’s voice ringing through the empty room, but did not hear his words.

It took a repetition to sound like speech and not white noise. _Why didn’t you tell me,_ he said. _Why didn’t you tell me._

_Why didn’t you tell me._

_I had to protect them. I had to keep them safe._

_Surely you of all people would know that._

His reply choked him. It stuck in his throat, sharp as a knife, unmoving through the hitching sobs and his desperate gasps for breath. He couldn’t speak. 

_I failed. I failed, I couldn’t protect her. I couldn’t protect them._

The voice came again. 

_I told you about him. I told you the truth. I trusted you._

He nodded.

_I know._

The guilt wracked him as the silence dragged on, save for the creak of their weight on the floorboards. Silence was sickening. Silence forced him to think, forced him to _feel_.

The silence he’d once craved was now _agony_.

_You’re required in the common room. Don’t be late._

The door creaked to a close behind him, long and low and accusing, and left him to the mercy of the quiet.

_I'm sorry._

* * *

          "Daddy? Are you listening?"

He'd been lost in thought, but the real world beckoned.

Katie was looking up at him, craning her little head far, far back, almost falling over in her attempts to catch his eye. He gently reached out to steady her.

          "What? Oh, oh, yeah. Course." he lied, quickly, cheeks a little pink at being caught unawares. He was so known for his unshakeable focus, his attention to detail, but the feeling of all eyes on him had him reeling. Oh, the shame of it.

          "I was just... daydreaming. Sorry, darlin'."

His daughter's giggle soothed a stormy heart.

He looked back up to see the room still filled with people, sat scattered around the room, now feeling so small with twenty-seven instead of nine. Most of the chairs had been given up to the children. Everyone was looking at him, but they turned away at the last moment, back to Angela as she spoke again.

          "Thank you, Katie.” she murmured, but there was no sense of anger, or any intent to shame. Her eyes, ruby-red and shining, were still soft and knowing despite their colour, having shared the same pain in their long lifetime. To lose, to be left behind, to have one’s soul torn apart time and time again. She’d felt what he felt. 

She knew.

          “We’ve been instructed to mentor Team Barricade, and begin basic training.”

His heart sank in his chest.

_No. No, no, no. They can’t do this. Not my little girl. Not my Katie._

Unconsciously, he tugged his daughter a little closer, a little more protective, an unspoken warning that this was _insane_. 

_Please_ , his eyes begged. _Please, not her._

Angela sighed, and carried on.

          “We’ll be working in threes based on roles. Fortress, Aegis, pair up, and we can introduce ourselves. I think that will be quickest.”

Mick watched as all others moved and shifted around him, unable to do the same. His body twitched with the urge to move but he could do nothing, feel nothing, chilled and empty as the driving snow outside. He felt dizzy.

His stomach lurched, and he took a shuddering breath.

He needed a fucking cigarette.

A gentle hand tapped on his shoulder, breaking him from his thoughts, and he turned to see Christine. She was smiling so softly at him, caring and comforting, seeming to know that something was wrong. Her baby-pink eyes spoke volumes.

_Sorry_ , he mouthed, and gave a hesitant smile in return.

          “Barricade, can you find your class group, please?”

A jolt of panic ran through him as Katie stepped away. He had to stop himself from reaching out, hands curling into fists until they hurt, his whole body tense enough to tremble.

He felt sick.

His little girl. His Katie. Leaving his side, unsafe, unsafe, fear and horror, the chance of loss, the chance of losing everything. She was his everything. He’d lost everyone, every last member of his family, everyone he’d ever loved.

She was his final hope. His redemption. All the world could crumble around him for all he cared, as long as it meant she was safe.

He had to get out. 

He stepped back, and again, and again, and shuddered as terror ripped right through his body, coursing through his veins like electricity. With all eyes on him again, he stumbled back through the doors, ran along the corridor, and escaped.

His angel couldn’t see him like this.

It was his job to be strong. She couldn’t see him cry. He was her father - it was his job to wipe her tears, not create his own. His life belonged to her. Not to himself.

Sinking to the floor, he broke down.

It was _unfair_. It all felt so _unfair_ , to have so much stolen away from him, to have the betrayal of his tears running down his cheeks. Every time he’d lost something, every time the wound had closed and scarred and begun to heal, the world had ripped it open again. Over, and over, and over. 

The world wouldn’t take his Katie. The world could never take his Katie.

His chest felt tight, like old stitches could pop at any moment, spilling his shattered soul out on the floor.

It felt like glass-shards, stabbing through his chest.

          “Mick.”

He looked up to the voice, Spy’s voice, with eyes still blurry with tears, and noticed a small audience around him.

Christine, bending down, pink eyes still filled with concern.

Danielle, ready to translate for her.

The Spy, with his hand on a young boy’s shoulder.

          “Mick, I would like to introduce Daniel Page, your Barricade counterpart.” Spy murmured, inviting the boy forward. “Daniel, this is Michael Mundy, the Team Fortress Sniper and Katie’s father.”

          “N-Nice to meet you.” Mick said, putting on a brave face. “Sorry to run out on you like that. Been going through a lot.”

          “No worries.” the boy replied, coolly, his accent American but soft. “I understand.”

Something in the boy’s eyes confirmed it.

          “Danny is a friend of mine. I was made aware of their team during the furlough, and sent notes back and forth to them, keeping in touch as best I could. I came to inform you that Danny is in possession of a... very unusual ability.”

          “Unusual as in Aegis, or unusual as in… _more?”_

He watched, struck silent, as the boy disappeared, and was replaced with a small _owl_.

_Well, bugger me._

          “Danny has been using this power to deliver information to me. He was deemed a good fit for a Sniper, due to his ability to reach places even you could not without help.”

The owl chirped in agreement at that, shaking out its feathers a little, seeming to puff out its chest proudly. 

          “I’d like for you to keep him safe.”

Mick’s breath hitched in his throat. The words cut a little too close to home. Spy seemed to have noticed it too, and gave a little cough before glancing away, the air thick with awkwardness.

There was an angry voice in his head, and it said _because you know you can’t._

          “I will.”

* * *

          “There, that’s it. Keep your shoulders square, don’t turn - just your head. Perfect.”

The training ground they’d been shown was fully kitted out, and they were told they could use it as often as they wished. Some were more excited than others. An armoury sat behind a locked door on the side of the room, and there was ample space for all three teams. It seemed purpose-built. 

          “Now hold still, right there. Christine will be watching. You gotta hold dead still, got it?”

Mick and Christine had picked out a bow for Danny to use, fearing the recoil of their sniper rifles. Though they were used to it - and could more than handle it - neither felt a thirteen-year-old should take such damage. They’d long since worn the bruises and the scars, but there was no need to force the same on him.

The rest of the Teams had similar ideas.

The eldest of Barricade, an English boy named Tom, was the only one of the nine testing a firearm. At sixteen years old and the team’s Soldier, he was deemed fit enough to handle it, under the watchful eye of Angela and Jane. Surprisingly enough, Jane had removed his beloved helmet, setting it aside to keep close watch on the boy. 

He was more quiet and careful than they’d ever seen him.

Others had chosen to disperse elsewhere. Cecil and Annabelle, despite their back-and-forth of insults, had quietly taken the young Hai Li under their wing, spiriting him away to the depths of the Facility. Klaus and Ekundayo had been delighted to discover Toby and his excitement for their craft. Vera and Dell had taken the second eldest, an Indian boy named Harshad, and little Bianca was put into the safe hands of Danielle and Tavish.

All around, there was a sense of _protectiveness_.

These children, nine _children_ , had been thrust into a world that was not their own, and never should have been. Fortress and Aegis knew this, and felt the sickening sensation at the thought. 

In the farthest corner of the room, safe from the gunfire on the other side, were the Scouts.

They were playing tag.

Katie was _giggling_ as she ran about, chased by the two with grins on all three faces. They were actively trying _not_ to catch her, letting her delight in the evasion, fawning over her with fake puffs of breath and praise of how _fast_ she was.

Mick couldn’t help but smile as he watched.

The three were almost like odd siblings, but there was a flicker of responsibility in Jeremy, one none of them had seen before. He’d approached Mick of his own accord, just to promise his daughter’s safety. Kitty had said the same. 

In a way, there was a fatherhood in him.


	10. Heart

_“I have accepted fear as part of life – specifically the fear of change... I have gone ahead despite the pounding in the heart that says: turn back...”_

_― Erica Jong_

* * *

_It hurts._

_Oh, God, it hurts._

_He’s done this before, been trained like this before, but none so much as this. Never so much as this. He was trained to endure, to keep lips tightly sealed, to take one’s secrets to the inevitable grave. They all were._

_Unfortunate, then, that his captors wanted him alive._

_He wants to scream, to cry out, to break the stony-faced facade he’s clung to for so long. Charred flesh and melted skin pulls away from the wound, blackened and burning, the stench filling his nose and turning his stomach. It sickens him._

_He hears a voice from above, from lips he cannot see._

_Remember what we've taught you._

_High heels click away._

_Silence._

_Darkness._

* * *

**October 23rd, 1972, 3:12pm**

          “Aw, don’t they look so pretty?”

Her tiny hands were so small and dainty in his, held patiently within a palm, even as she fidgeted and giggled and chattered about her day. He held the little brush between finger and thumb, anointing her nails in glitter and pink. She’d been so excited for it.

          “They look so cute!” he continued, grinning at her, leaning in to nuzzle his nose against hers. She giggled at that, and the sound warmed him. “Now you gotta be careful not to smudge them, alright? Can’t have you getting glittery pink all over the place. They’ll be dry soon.”

Her reply was to offer a kiss to his cheek, smiling against the rough stubble he’d grown.

          “Can I do yours?”

The question brought a spark of surprise into him, mind racing with questions, with thoughts, with fears for the reactions of others. What would they say? Was it acceptable? 

_Wait._

This was his daughter. The light of his life.

He didn’t care what they thought.

          Smiling, he nodded, kissing the top of her head. “Course you can, darlin’. Soon as yours are dry, we can-”

          “I wanna do them now!” she squeaked, grinning, clambering towards him to sit in his lap. He could do nothing but chuckle at her excitement, caving to her demand and hauling her close, blowing a raspberry into her hair.

Her giggles made things right.

Sighing, smiling, he handed off the little bottle, getting comfortable and offering a hand. She always started with a thumb, so he gave his left, the one least likely to be chipped. His right thumbnail was ever-bruised and ever-blackened, always caught in the workings of his gun, so it was ill-suited to such a blessing. He would keep this little gift as long as he could.

With tiny, gentle strokes, she painted the nail, bright pink and glittery and happy.

          “I see you’re both having fun.” a chuckling voice came from the doorway, past a door too new to have creaked. It was Annabelle, standing there with a smile on painted lips, observing the two as they spent time with each other. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve been told to come and get you, Mick - there’s a battle due, I think. I can look after Katie for a little bit, have some girly time, yeah?”

Katie’s answer was clear - after hopping off Mick’s lap, she hurried over to Annabelle, grinning up at her and almost bouncing with excitement.

          “Yeah! Dad, can I go with Anna, pleaaaase?”

He couldn’t argue with those puppy eyes.

          “Sure you can, darlin’. Just be good, alright?”

          “I’m sure she’ll be good as gold, won’t you, Katie?” Annabelle murmured, smiling as she took her hand. “Good luck in the battle, Mick. See you on the other side.”

And just like that, he was alone.

* * *

**October 23rd, 1972, 3:55pm**

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He could feel it, like an itch at the back of his neck. Years of paranoia, prickling at scars.

Team Fortress were together.

A glance at his team returned the same expressions - confusion, nervousness. Fear. They were told they’d be fighting each other. _What was going on?_

          “Something’s up,” he breathed, and got nods.

The TV in the corner flickered into life, displaying the usual board, the lists of names in red upon the right. _Scout, Soldier, Pyro. Demo, Heavy, Engineer. Medic, Sniper, Spy._

All of them.

Another flicker, the waver of old technology, and then names in blue on the left.

_Scout, Soldier, Pyro. Demo, Heavy, Engineer. Medic, Sniper, Spy._

Another team battle, then. Workable. Nothing new. A relief.

_Annabelle said she would look after Katie. Where is Katie?_

The doors opened, behind them, and made hearts sink into the floor.

Five young boys, looking scared for their lives.

Barricade, it was _Barricade,_ here with them, their fears realised as all eyes turned to the board. Beneath the red names came the confirmation, blaring in suddenly-sickening green - _Soldier, Engineer, Medic, Sniper, Spy._

          “This is _madness.”_ Klaus muttered in disbelief, shaken to the core, and reached out to receive Toby and keep him close. The silver-haired boy, originally so calm and confident, was _trembling_ against Klaus’ hip, and he kept a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder. Cecil did the same, sweeping Li Hai up into his arms without a second breath. 

Thomas, still wearing Jane’s helmet, was trying valiantly to keep his composure. An awkward pat on his back drew a distinct sniffle from beneath the brim.

          “They can’t do this. These are _children,_ they said that Barricade wouldn’t be battling for months, even _years.”_ Klaus continued, looking around to his fellow teammates. Harshad was stood as close to Dell as he could, and Danny had made a beeline to Misha, seeking his protection.

Mick approached the board, with horror in his heart.

_BLUE TEAM._

_Scout, Pyro, Demo, Heavy._

          “Katie’s on the other team.” he breathed, then louder. “My daughter’s on the other team. I won’t fight my _daughter. I won’t fight children.”_

Suddenly, he whirled upon the camera in the corner, glaring up at it with eyes filled with rage. “You hear me, _bitch? You hear me?_ I’m not fighting. I won’t. Fuck your _battle!”_

With that, he turned back to the door, and kicked hard enough to splinter wood. 

In seconds he was off down the corridor, and the others quickly followed, Barricade safely in tow. For once, they all seemed to agree. They couldn’t go through with this.

The names flickered from the screen, one by one, until it was empty.

* * *

**October 23rd, 1972, 9:43pm**

          He expected the guards, when they came for him.

It was late, after Barricade had been sent off to bed, and Fortress sat alone in their common room. The TV blared nothing of note - films, mostly, with never a sign of news. The novelty had soured since their realisation.

Mick stood to meet them, defiant, blue gaze blazing with the fury of hours. All eyes turned to watch. Nervous glances were shared.

          “The Administration would like to _respectfully_ remind Mr Mundy that such actions of dissent are forbidden in the Facility. Further infractions will result in corrective measures. Is that clear?”

There was a silence, as if he was tempted to attack.

          “Yes. _Sir.”_ he hissed, beneath his breath, his glare still intense.

Satisfied, the two guards appeared to turn away.

_CRACK._

There was barely a moment’s pause before Mick was hissing in pain, clutching his cheek, scarlet blood threading between his fingers. Something on the rifle butt had been _sharp._ He looked back up, incredulous, furious, drops forming rivulets down his hand. He didn’t dare move his tongue, for fear of it going through the wound and out the other side.

The guard that struck him was implacable, faceless, and left without another word, leaving Fortress to worry for their friend.

          “I’m alright. I’m alright.” he assured, breathlessly, trying to slow his heartbeat once more. Klaus grabbed his chin and pulled his hand away, inspecting, a look of fear in those blue eyes.

          “I’m fine.” he murmured, softer now. “It could have been worse.”

He was more than aware of what it could have been. What they could have done. Two inches higher, and it could have taken his eye.

_It could have been worse._

* * *

**October 24th, 1972, 0:16am**

          His mind buzzed with information, filing everything away, his memory capturing the thoughts like butterflies in a net.

_Remember what we’ve taught you._

He closed the door behind him with a soft click - well aware of the time - and stepped out into the restricted corridor, fiddling with his tie. The back of his neck stang with the movement, but he didn’t show it. He turned, instead, to the sudden crack of light into the hallway, and the sight of a figure stepping out.

          “Same time tomorrow night, darlin’. Don’t forget.”

A girly giggle, fake and feminine, and words spoken through a smile.

          “I won’t, Mister Stephen, you can count on it!”

_Annabelle._

With a little wave of her fingers, she closed the door behind her, turned her back on it, and let her smile drop. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could just make out her appearance - hair dishevelled, shirt unbuttoned. She reached down to tug off her heels with a grimace.

When she looked up, she saw him.

After a moment’s violet glare, she straightened her back and turned away, starting silently down the corridor once more. She did not look back at him. The only sound was her heels clicking together in her hand, until it faded into the darkness like the rest.

Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a cigarette, and sighed.

High heels click away. 

Silence. 

Darkness.


End file.
